


Thursday’s Child

by strangeandcharm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Castiel Whump, Dean Whump, Drug Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 114,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday's child has far to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 5.04, 'The End'. What would have happened if past!Dean hadn’t turned up in 2014, and future!Dean had actually succeeded in killing Lucifer with the Colt?
> 
> (Originally posted on 12 December 2009 on LiveJournal.)

**Warnings:** This is future!Castiel, so be prepared for Castiel/OFCs, drug use and alcohol abuse (hey, it’s all canon!). In addition there’s the odd bit of violence, some whump, muchas porning and very brief implied non-con (nothing graphic at all). Please be warned if you don’t like death!fics that this story is set after Dean had to kill Lucifer!Sam, so clearly there’s (a) no Sam and (b) some mourning. On the bright side, though, there's also a guest appearance from a real-life Hollywood star!  (Well, sort of.)

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

_1\. Camp Chitaqua ~ Zihuatanejo_

 

 

Castiel knows the precise moment when Dean succeeds in his mission. 

He knows despite the fact he’s currently grappling with a Croat in a room that used to be a canteen before it was torn to shreds by hungry refugees. He knows because when Dean finally, blessedly fulfils his goal and kills Lucifer, Castiel can feel Lucifer die. Lucifer is the last angel on the planet besides him and when he vanishes it’s as though somebody’s cut Castiel’s last, faint connection to the celestial realms, leaving him fully human and totally and utterly helpless.

The knife that slips into his side mere seconds later only reinforces the feeling, and he’s on the floor and breathing what he thinks is his last breath before he even has time to wonder whether Dean is alive or dead.

~ ~ ~

There’s nothing for a long time; only faint flashes of sensation, none of them pleasant. When he eventually opens his eyes he’s lying in his own bed surrounded by candles. It’s night and Chuck is sitting on a chair a few feet away, his eyes wide like an owl’s in the gloom. 

“Hey,” Chuck says, and Castiel’s first thought is that he looks like a bundle of nerves. His second thought is about the man who isn’t in the room with them.

“D-Dean,” he croaks, the hoarseness of his voice – the _weakness_ of it – scaring the life out of him.

Chuck frowns, his eyes flashing confusion. “No, Cas. It’s not… I’m not him. I’m not Dean. I’m Chuck. You know that, right? You didn’t bang your head or anything? I’m Chuck. You know, the prophet guy?”

Castiel frowns back, licking his lips to speak again, and then realization dawns on his companion’s face. 

“Oh, sorry. I’m such a doofus. You mean ‘where is he’, right?” Chuck leans forward, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “He didn’t come back, Cas. I mean, we think he survived. Lucifer’s… _Sam’s_ … body was gone, and he took the car. We think he took him home to Kansas. We think he wanted to bury him with the rest of their family. But we don’t know for sure.”

Castiel is too busy feeling relieved to wonder what kind of mindset Dean had to be in to go like that, without a word to anybody. And then it strikes him that he feels terrible; his head is pounding and his mouth is painfully dry, and there’s a growing, nagging feeling that something’s really wrong with his ribs on his left side because breathing hurts like hell. He tries to lift his head to look, noting that he’s under a pile of blankets and doesn’t seem to be wearing a shirt, but Chuck hurriedly places a hand on his shoulder and gently pushes him flat again. 

“Give the moving around a raincheck for a while, okay buddy? You got hurt bad. You’ve been out of it for a few days now. The best thing you can do is lie still.”

“Thirsty,” Castiel manages to gasp out, his head falling back onto the pillow as pain lances up his side. Chuck nods enthusiastically and leaps to his feet, clearly pleased to be doing something, and a moment later he’s holding a bottle of tepid water to Castiel’s lips and it’s the most wonderful thing in the world as the liquid slides down his razorblade throat.

“We didn’t know if you were going to wake up,” Chuck tells him as he drinks, color rising in his cheeks. “You lost so much blood and then you were sick – like, really, really sick, and none of us knew what to do until Ed thought maybe you were going through the DTs or something. And then it all kinda made sense, seeing as you’re usually… well, you know.”

He removes the bottle and Castiel licks his lips, trying to figure out what Chuck just said. His confusion must have shown on his face because Chuck coughs slightly in embarrassment and adds, “What I mean is, you got stabbed and we fixed that, but then you went through withdrawal as well. I guess you’re kinda dried out now, though. Clean start and all that.” A smile, even though it’s small, transforms his face suddenly, and his eyes flash blue above it. “It’s the end of the end of the world, Cas. Lucifer’s dead, the Croats all got better… everything’s gonna go back to normal now.”

Castiel stares up at him, trying to arrange all this new information in his head, but he’s too tired and hurt to do much more than file it away for later. He closes his eyes and hears Chuck say, “Oh, man, but you only just woke up…” and then he’s dead to the world again.

~ ~ ~

Three days of detoxing turn into six, then eight, and after that Castiel feels better, but only a little. He can’t do much – his ribs scream whenever he moves and he’s exhausted all the time. Too exhausted, really, for it to be a side-effect of his injuries, or even the comedown from all the alcohol and drugs he’s fed himself over the past few years. He’s tired because he’s lost too much. He’s human. One hundred per cent mortal. The last angel to walk the Earth beside him has gone, and with him went any last vestige of his old self. 

Castiel isn’t just weak and vulnerable and frail and hapless. He’s _ordinary_. 

It’s a cold, bitter thought, and one he’d normally cover up by swallowing a handful of pills or lighting up a joint or downing as many glasses of whiskey as he could without passing out, but it just doesn’t seem right to do that now. There’s a strange mood in the camp, one of heavy grief mingled with furious relief. The ragtag band of survivors filling the place don’t really fill it any more; they lost too many in the final, suicidal fight, and their loss is bitter. The ones who are left feel guilty for feeling overjoyed now that Lucifer is gone. There are parties and celebrations which are followed by tears and anger. Everybody wonders what the hell they’re going to do now. There’s a lot of rebuilding to do, and the prospect is overwhelming.

The atmosphere is peculiar, and it unnerves Castiel. He’s not used to seeing the world so clearly, not since he started to fall into it; he’d done everything he could _not_ to see it for years. But he’s pleased to see one thing: as the days pass Chuck loosens up and relaxes before his eyes, finally free of those crippling visions and able to function properly. He seems to grow taller somehow. More confident. He spends a lot of time with Castiel, keeping the throng of women who’d normally be in and out of the cabin away so that his patient can rest, but Castiel sees enough to register that the rest of the people in the camp are turning to him for leadership. For once Chuck is able to give it. 

Castiel is happy for him, but he misses his predecessor so much it frequently startles him.

“You need to get some fresh air, man,” Chuck informs him one morning, handing him a cup of coffee and grinning in the sunlight streaming in through the window. Castiel still can’t believe how young he looks like this, when he’s content. “Come on, let’s go for a walk today. The lake’s beautiful now we don’t have to patrol it and keep our eyes open for Croats. Oh, oh! And I heard a rumor they’ve got the power back on in town and someone’s opened up one of the bars. We should totally go and check it out. Interact with real people again. Civilians.”

Castiel shakes his head, staring down at the coffee. “You go.” A thought strikes him and he smiles a little. “Take Sara. I think she’d like you to.”

Chuck huffs in mock indignation. “Why, thank you, Cupid. I happen to know that already, but she’s busy today. She’s trying to get her laptop up and running so we can see if the internet’s still out there.” He sits on the bed, scratching at his neck. “Why don’t you wanna go? I hope you don’t mind me asking, Cas, but I thought you’d be pleased to hit a bar after so long without drinking anything. Or have you turned over a new leaf?”

“Something like that,” Castiel says softly. 

When he doesn’t speak again Chuck sighs. “You’re so quiet these days, dude. You were much more fun before. Although, uh, obviously I’m glad you’re not a pot-headed alcoholic any more. That’s probably not the best way to live your life.”

 _I have a life to live now,_ Castiel thinks, the thought scaring him a little. _I have to plan it out. Think ahead. Decide what I want to do with it, now I know Lucifer isn’t going to end it all. Choose who I want to spend it with._

“Has anybody heard from him?” he asks, knowing he doesn’t have to explain who he’s talking about.

Chuck’s face softens. “Not a dickie-bird. I’m sorry. I think he’s gone for good. I think–” He stops and looks away, then continues, “He sent everybody to their deaths, Cas. He must have known, going in. You were the only one who made it out, and I don’t think he even knows you did. He probably thinks the rest of us don’t ever want to see him again.”

Castiel nods. “Yeah, that sounds like our Dean. Always assuming everybody thinks the worst of him.” He looks sideways at his companion. “ _Do_ they want to see him again?” He nods his head at the door as he speaks, indicating the camp and its dwindled population.

“Some of them,” Chuck reveals, after a moment’s pause. “But not all of ’em. He… he didn’t have a lot of friends. Not really. Just you and me. And even then I’m not sure he liked me all that much.”

“He liked you, Chuck,” Castiel tells him plainly. “You were always straight with him. That’s all it took.”

Chuck shrugs, looking dubious. “If you say so. I just never really got that impression. You and him, though… you never let him get away with anything, did you? I think he would’ve shot anybody else who talked to him the way you did.”

“Special privileges,” Castiel says wistfully. “I pulled him out of Hell.”

“Yeah, like he ever thanked you for that.” Chuck grins hugely and then his face suddenly crinkles. Castiel has just enough time to move his coffee out of danger before he sneezes mightily. “Gah! Sorry. Damn pollen. All this grass is bad for my sinuses. I hate this place sometimes. I’m a city guy through and through.”

“Maybe I will go into town after all,” Castiel announces, sipping at his coffee. “Do you think the gas stations are working again? I’m going to need more gas than we’ve got here.”

“Why, what for?”

Castiel looks at him seriously. “I’m going to find Dean.”

“Oh.” Chuck sniffs, looking not in the least bit surprised. “Well, I suppose somebody should do it. It’d be nice to thank him for saving the world ‘n’ all.”

~ ~ ~

Moving around is tough, but Castiel’s getting used to feeling stiff and sore by now and refuses to allow himself be cowed by his body’s weakness. He lets Chuck drive, however, leaning on the passenger door without making it look too obvious and watching the trees flash past the car as they move. To his surprise – and delight – there are other vehicles on the road. They’re a strange mixture of rusted junkpiles and modern cars with smashed windows or dented panelwork, but they’re moving, and the people who drive past smile at them and sometimes wave. At first their behavior puzzles him, but he watches Chuck nod and grin at them in return and realizes there’s a sense of camaraderie among the population now as they come to terms with the fact that they _survived_.

“They were all trying to kill us just two weeks ago,” Chuck observes brightly, as he cheerily salutes a man and a woman trundling by in a jeep that looks like it’s running on their willpower alone. “For all we know, Dean was shooting at those guys on his last mission as they tried to claw his eyes out.”

“I wonder what everybody’s thinking,” Castiel muses, idly making a fist with his right hand and watching his knuckles whiten. “Do they remember it? Once the virus leaves you, can you remember how many people you killed?”

“They all look happy enough,” Chuck declares, shooting him a troubled look. “Maybe it wiped their brains clean. I dunno.”

“Do you think anybody’s in charge? Who’s running the town? Who’s running all the cities?” Castiel imagines an America divided into thousands of settlements that are battling to find their feet again, like frontier towns in the Wild West. 

Chuck shakes his head. “The army, I guess, although they’ve been trigger-happy for so long I can’t say I’m happy about the idea.”

Castiel thinks back to the night Bobby died and how the soldiers hadn’t given a damn that he was in a wheelchair or clearly virus-free. He thinks back to all the atrocities he’s seen the government commit in the last few years and he sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“You okay?” Chuck asks gently. “Is this too much? If you want to go back, you just have to say. You’re still pretty beat up.”

“I’ll live,” Castiel replies, and he can’t decide if his voice sounds bitter or relieved at the thought.

~ ~ ~

They smell the smoke long before they hit their destination and it’s enough to make them exchange nervous glances. Bodies have been lying rotting in the streets for months now, ever since the situation with the Croats got so bad nobody was fit enough to remove them. Now there are pyres lining the roadside as they approach the town, piled high with corpses that have probably been brought out from the center. The stink of burning flesh is unmistakeable. The people tending the pyres are soot-stained and weary-looking, but there’s a sense that they’re organized. There’s a method to what they’re doing. 

“Someone’s definitely calling the shots,” Castiel says. 

“I hope that bar _is_ open,” Chuck mutters, almost to himself. “I really need a drink right now.”

 _So do I,_ thinks Castiel. _But I’m not having one._

There’s electricity in the town. Music is blaring out of open doors; kids are sitting on the sidewalk playing on their Nintendos and several of the stores are open, their broken windows covered in cardboard or strips of wood. There aren’t as many people milling around as there should be, true, but the ones who are seem to be doing their damnedest to look normal as they chat to friends and sweep up garbage. Several makeshift stands have been set up outside burnt-out houses and are selling everything from toilet paper to fruit. 

Incredibly, the town square’s Starbucks is open. Chuck peers inside the door at the customers happily sipping coffees and glances back at Castiel with an incredulous look on his face. 

“They’ll survive _anything_ ,” Chuck says, pointing at the Starbucks sign. “Like freakin’ cockroaches.”

“They’re getting their supplies from somewhere,” Castiel announces, narrowing his eyes as he watches the baristas through the cracked glass of the window. “There must have been deliveries or they wouldn’t be open. If someone’s bringing stuff in, they’d need fuel to get out again, too.” He stares around them; there’s a gas station on the corner at the end of the block. Its sign is illuminated, but the last time Castiel had been here the whole display had been lying on the floor. “Hallelujah,” he breathes, a smile spreading across his face.

“So you drive away, but what if you can’t find any more gas after that?” Chuck points out, his voice a little jittery. He waves a hand at the horizon, currently black-smudged with smoke. “We have no idea what’s out there.” 

“I guess I’ll take my chances.”

“You’re really leaving us, huh?” 

Castiel looks round at his friend, who’s staring at him mournfully, suddenly the nervous, unsettled man he used to be. It hadn’t occurred to him that Chuck would miss him. To be honest, he hasn’t really given much thought to anything except finding Dean.

“You can come too, Chuck,” he offers, patting him on the shoulder. “We can go find Dean together.”

Chuck slumps beneath his hand. “The two amigos, huh? It’s a nice thought, Cas, but I think I’ve had enough excitement for one lifetime. I kind of want to go home, you know? See what’s left of my house. And, uh, my town.”

Castiel nods, lowering his hand and smiling. “Of course. And that way I’ll know where you are so I can find you again, once I’ve caught up with Dean.”

“Me and Sara,” Chuck emphasizes, with forced cheerfulness. “I’m sure we’ll be goin’ steady by then.”

“Have you even kissed her yet?”

Chuck blinks and looks flustered. “Uh, no… not quite. But we’re workin’ up to it.”

Three teenagers push past them as they exit the coffee shop and Castiel hisses as he has to step to one side hurriedly, the movement jerking at his knife wound. The pain makes his knees weak and for a moment he thinks he’s going to fall, but Chuck’s hand is strong on his arm and the sensation passes. 

“Idiots,” Chuck growls at the boys in uncharacteristic anger. They look back at them and shrug in unison, everything about them derisive and arrogant. They’re faintly ludicrous; teenage boys filled with bravado in a world that has already taught them that bravado will get them nowhere.

When Castiel glances up and into their eyes, though, all three of them pale in seconds.

“You’re that angel dude,” the tallest teenager says, his jaw falling slack. “The one that hangs around with Winchester.”

Castiel racks his brain but doesn’t recognize the boy at all. “Have we met?” he asks, his voice still a little edgy from the pain.

The boys suddenly look nervous. They gaze at each other mutely and shake their heads. “Naw,” says the tall one. “We haven’t.” 

They’re gone a moment later, hurrying their pace as they cross the street and disappear around a corner. Castiel stares after them, unnerved.

“Weirdness,” Chuck says succinctly, and releases his arm.

“I think they knew me because they saw me when they were Croats,” Castiel muses. “They remembered.”

Chuck swallows hard. “Damn. There goes the theory that nobody remembers anything. I’ll tell you this, man, the shrinks are gonna make big bucks once several million people decide they want to talk about everything they did when they were infected.”

“They knew I was an angel,” Castiel murmurs, only half-listening. “And they knew Dean… I wonder how many others know our faces. Maybe we didn’t meet at all. Maybe our pictures were circulated by Lucifer or something. His demons were hunting us for years, after all.”

Chuck sighs. “Well, it beats the kind of fame you’d get from starring in a reality show.”

Castiel feels relief flood over him. _If Dean’s face is well-known, he’ll be easier to track. There’ll be sightings._ It’s probably a huge leap of faith to think so, but Castiel’s been faith-leaping all his life; the only difference here is that God isn’t involved.

God hasn’t been involved for years.

“There’s a bar,” Chuck grins suddenly, pointing a few blocks down the street. “Look, the sign’s lit up. It’s open! And if Starbucks here is serving drinks, there’ll definitely be beer in there. Coffee and beer are the two staples of American life in the 21st century. No town could live without them.”

Castiel takes two steps forward, still thinking hard about Dean, but then something catches his eye and he finds himself walking stiffly towards it. Chuck follows him, puzzled, and when Castiel comes to stand before a foldaway table piled high with cellphones he huffs out an incredulous laugh. 

“Seriously? You want to gear up?”

“We’ll need these,” Castiel explains, picking up one of the cells and examining it. “I’ll have to stay in touch with you in case you see Dean before I do.”

“Oh-kay,” Chuck says doubtfully, “but I’m betting there’s not much of a service right now.”

The man standing behind the table scratches at his beard and sniffs. “There will be,” he drawls. “Government says com’ication’s the first thing it’s gonna fix, once it’s seen to fixin’ up the hospitals ‘n’ shit. Give it a week or two and these babies will be singin’ again.” He nods at Castiel. “Dey all come with power leads. And you can get the numbers by looking at their menus. I wouldn’t sell ’em with no numbers.”

“How much?” Castiel asks.

“What you got?”

Castiel puts the phone on the table and turns out his pockets. It’s been months since he’s used money – since _anybody’s_ used money – but he still has thirty-seven dollars and twenty-nine cents scattered about his person. The salesman sniffs and collects it up without much enthusiasm. 

“Is that even worth anything right now?” Chuck asks him curiously.

The salesman shrugs. “Shops are acceptin’ it. Guess our ’conomy ain’t as bust as it could be.”

“You need a cell too,” Castiel reminds Chuck, then watches in veiled amusement as his friend spends five minutes rooting through fifteen different pockets until he finds a battered old wallet. Ten dollars later, they’re walking towards the bar with cellphones sitting in their hands, the weight of them in their hands unfamiliar after so long spent without holding one.

“Uh, you do know there’s no power in the camp to charge these?” Chuck points out. “I think Sara’s using up the last generator juice today.”

“You’re leaving there soon anyway.” Castiel looks around him, then winces at the music blaring from the bar as they approach its door. “Are you sure about this?”

Chuck grins widely. “Well, duh. Pass up the chance for a cold beer after all this time? Are you _nuts?_ ”

Castiel orders a Coca-Cola, and it somehow tastes offensive on his tongue.

~ ~ ~

When it comes down to it, Castiel has no idea what to do.

It’s the reason he’s going to look for Dean. Without him he’s completely lost, adrift in a sea of humanity he can only connect with when he’s wasted, and he never wants to get wasted again. He’s like this because of Dean. _Everything_ is because of Dean. Even if Dean isn’t really Dean any more; even if the Dean he gradually befriended all those years ago is nowhere to be seen, he’s still _him._ Somewhere underneath all that scar tissue and anger and self-loathing is the man Castiel once knew. 

Dean killed his brother. Castiel knows him well enough to understand that saying he was going to do it and actually doing it must have been two completely different things. The moment he’d fired the Colt and Sam’s body had hit the ground, Dean had doubtless died in his own way too. 

Which, naturally, makes his disappearance all the more worrying. Castiel doesn’t think Dean’s committed suicide in despair; he’s fought too hard to survive over a lifetime to do that. But he suspects Dean might be subconsciously trying to end things instead. That he’ll be lashing out at people, or plunging headlong into danger without thinking, or just generally being an idiot. Either that, or he’s gone to ground somewhere and can’t react to the world at all. Castiel would understand if he’d snapped. A human mind can only take so much, and Dean’s mind has suffered things no other mortal on the planet has suffered.

What’s truly astonishing to him is that he knows all this, and yet just a few short years ago humans were a mystery to him. Castiel has been struggling to come to terms with his new, diminished existence for so long that he’s forgotten there are advantages; empathy is probably the biggest.

He checks over his cabin one last time, making sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, flinching a little as he bends too quickly. He hopes he’s well enough to travel. He’s still unused to how injuries can drag you down with them, and just because he feels good today doesn’t mean he’ll be fine tomorrow. But the thought of staying any longer is abhorrent: _he must find Dean._

“I’ll miss you,” comes a voice from the door, and he turns around to see a young blonde woman standing there with a sad look on her face. For a hideously embarrassing stretch of time he can’t remember her name and he struggles to recall where he knows her from. Had she been there the night he’d dropped acid? That night with those red-headed twins from Norway who’d giggled non-stop, and their drunk brother? In fact, hadn’t she had sex with the brother while he’d…

“It’s Lisa,” she pouts, looking a little annoyed. 

Apparently Castiel isn’t very good at masking his thoughts when he’s sober; his confusion must have been written all over his face. “I know,” he says unconvincingly, and smiles at her. “I’m sorry I have to go, but it’s important.”

She twirls a strand of hair around her finger and tries to look at least ten years younger than she is, which would make her positively illegal. And as Castiel watches he realizes she’s not the girl he’s thinking of. He knows her, yes, and he’s sure he’s slept with her, but for the life of him he can’t remember a damn thing about it. The knowledge – or lack of it – hits him with the force of sledgehammer. He’d spent almost two years as high as a kite, shoving so many drugs down his throat to escape real life that he’d lost entire weeks of his existence to the blackouts that followed. He’d completely forgotten everything he’d done. And, more importantly, every _woman_ he’d done.

“Can I come with you?” Lisa pleads, as he struggles to comprehend how he feels about the realisation. “I won’t be any trouble.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but it’s not an apology for the fact he doesn’t want to take her with him. He takes a step forward and clears his throat awkwardly. “Look, what we did that time? I was really out of line. For that you have my apologies. I wasn’t really myself.”

She blinks at him. “That time?” she repeats. “Which time? You’re going to have to be more specific, Cas.”

 _It was more than once._ Castiel still can’t remember her and now he feels sick. How had he sunk so low that he’d been capable of seducing a woman repeatedly and then totally forgetting about it? What kind of creature had he been? 

And how many more women were out there that he couldn’t remember?

She’s staring at him, perplexed, and he realizes he must look totally horrified. He controls himself with an effort and flashes a fake smile. “Ah… I might be mixing you up with someone else. Never mind.”

“I’ll bet it’s Tina,” Lisa returns, and giggles. “She said you were pretty rough with her.”

“Oh sweet merciful Jesus.” Castiel sits down hard on his bed. This was getting worse by the second. Who the hell was Tina?

“She enjoyed it though,” Lisa adds quickly, looking a little bewildered by his reaction. “She said she asked you to do it.”

“Can I… can I have a minute?”

Lisa studies him for a moment before nodding uncertainly. “Sure.”

The moment she steps outside, Castiel turns and stares at his bed. He tries to remember everything he’s done in it since he became mortal, but he can’t. He looks at the floor as well, and the chairs, before rolling his eyes upwards in despair. 

He’d enjoyed it at the time, yes. But all he’d been doing was demeaning himself and demeaning everyone around him. He’d thrown away his principles for a handful of pills and a stomach full of booze and hadn’t given a damn what had happened afterwards. _He can’t remember._ There’s so much missing from his mind; blanks that shouldn’t be there, blanks that would be impossible for an angel’s vast and unfathomable consciousness. Back then it had all seemed to make perfect sense: he’d laughed and joked and done everything he could to mask the pain that came from knowing he’d played a part in the end of the world. After all, he’d been the one who’d let Sam out of his cell in Bobby’s house all that time ago. He’d never told Dean that. It had been selfish of him to keep it to himself, but he hadn’t wanted to see Dean’s disappointment. He hadn’t wanted to lose him. 

But he’d completely lost himself somewhere along the way instead. Now he knows it isn’t the end of everything, he’s ashamed. 

He’s never been ashamed before, not ever, not even about letting Sam go. Back then he’d been following orders… which wasn’t really an excuse, of course, but it had been all Castiel had known at the time. Afterwards, though, he’d been following his own course, and it had taken him to depths that he hadn’t been aware of until now. The shame feels almost physical: it prickles along his skin and makes his stomach churn. He thinks about how many lies he’d told to get women into bed, the things he’d done to them, the promises he’d made but hadn’t kept. He thinks about how Dean had looked at him sometimes, as though he couldn’t believe how far Castiel was taking things – hell, his actions had made Dean’s wayward sex life look like a nun’s. He thinks about how many times he’d lashed out at Dean with criticisms and complaints when he’d known damn well Dean was doing the best he could. At the time he’d thought he was keeping him grounded, stopping him from getting carried away with his power. Now? He realizes it was because he was angry. Not just at Dean, but at the universe. 

It wasn’t easy being human. It had started so slowly he’d barely even noticed; his powers had faded out, one by one, and he only discovered it when he went to use them and they weren’t there any more. Then there had been tiredness, his body slowing down to sluggishness and his mind losing concentration and focus. After that had been thirst and hunger and, charmingly, what happened to his body after he’d drunk and eaten. Most profound of all had been _sensation_ , when he’d started to feel heat and cold and, most galling of all, pain. 

Somewhere underneath it all, he’d still known he was part-angel. He’d clung to the knowledge desperately, even though he could barely feel it, because the alternative had been unbearable. But now… Since Lucifer’s death there’s no doubt it’s gone. His grace has disappeared. Jimmy has moved on. This is his body now, and he isn’t wearing it: he’s living it. He’s no more angelic than anybody else on the planet.

Thanks to his actions over the past two years, he’s a damn sight _less_ angelic than a lot of them, too.

~ ~ ~

Saying goodbye to Chuck is a lot harder than he’d expected. They’ve seen each other almost every day for over two years, barring the weeks when Castiel would go off with Dean on some mission or other. They’ve struck up an easy familiarity, a friendship that Castiel recognizes as comfortable and comforting. It’s nothing like his relationship with Dean, which is all tangled trust and desperation and need. What he has with Chuck is enjoyable.

“You go easy on those ribs, okay?” Chuck’s face is stern. “And get lots of rest. Don’t drive when you’re tired. And eat properly.”

“Yes, mom,” Castiel returns dryly, grinning. It strikes him that Chuck has never judged him, not once. Not when he was so drunk he couldn’t even carry himself off to bed; not when he’d taken too many valium and Chuck had spent a night anxiously trying to stop him passing out in case he didn’t wake up again; not when Castiel had thrown up on his bed – although that had kind of been Chuck’s fault, seeing as he’d supplied the tequila in the first place. Through everything, Chuck had just accepted him. Drunk, sober, stoned, trashed, high, low – Chuck was fine with it. 

“Thank you,” he tells him, and pulls him into a hug that Chuck is clearly not expecting. “For everything.”

There’s a gentle pat on his back and Chuck says breathlessly, “Take it easy, man. Keep in touch.”

As Castiel drives away he watches Chuck in the mirror. His figure gets smaller and smaller and just before he fades out of sight Sara comes up behind him and they walk away together.

Castiel smiles, happy that his friend isn’t alone, before it occurs to him that he hasn’t the faintest idea whether he ever slept with Sara. His smile fades.

~ ~ ~

He heads south to Kansas. There’s not much of Kansas left, to be honest, as he discovers when he gets there, but that doesn’t make it any different to any of the other states he drives through along the way. Some of the freeways are impassable, blocked with piles of ruined cars and trucks or completely obliterated by earthquakes or other side-effects of Lucifer’s reign. Castiel has to take a lot of detours and the journey takes over a week, but it’s not as though he wasn’t expecting it to be difficult.

One thing that does surprise him is that most of the hotels he passes along the way are open. Sadly, they’re not open for guests; they’re acting as makeshift homes for those who’ve lost theirs. There aren’t any rooms to spare, and nor would he wish to take one away from a family in dire need of somewhere stable to stay. Every time he pulls up at a motel there seem to be children playing outside, their games full of screams and fighting, as though they’re acting out what they suffered while they were infected. Some don’t play at all. They just sit and stare at him as he walks past them, their eyes dull and lifeless. Like they’ve seen too much already.

It’s lucky Castiel’s used to going without a decent bed and a shower, although the nights spent curled in the back of his ancient 4x4 aren’t exactly doing his ribs any good. At least there are places to eat, though, and the majority of truck stops have fuel. Castiel has money but it alarms him when he notices that the price of gas goes up from day to day, as though people didn’t know what to charge at first, but are now realizing they need more money than they did before. What the hell, though. If he runs out of money he’ll just have to find some more. Sooner or later the ATMs will start working again, and Castiel has three cards that belonged to Dean and knows how to use them. He’s not sure how much money’s on each, but life’s full of surprises.

People fascinate him. Every time he sits down in a diner or walks into a store to see what goods they have on the shelves, it shocks him that everybody’s acting so normally. Many people have injuries – broken bones, limps, cuts and bruises – but they just seem to accept them. Castiel assumes the vast majority of the people he sees were once infected; they would have been hurt while fighting each other or those who still hadn’t succumbed to the virus. It amazes him that so many could have been under the control of the Croatoan virus and survived, and it amazes him all the more that they seem able to just pick up where they left off and get on with their lives afterwards.

After a few days he finally gets it: it’s because there’s nothing else they can do.

He listens in on conversations, hearing talk of Lucifer and angels. Many people take Bibles with them wherever they go. There are impromptu church meetings on streets. It makes him uneasy, because God did not help these people when things were bad, and yet they’re thanking Him now. Dean Winchester saved them, not God. God did nothing. No matter how much Castiel has wanted to believe his Father was out there over the past five years, the proof to the contrary has been too strong. 

Castiel has no faith any more, and he misses it. He can’t turn it on and off like a lightswitch, though. Either he has it or he hasn’t. He still doesn’t know who resurrected him all those years ago, but he suspects it must have been Lucifer, because God did nothing else to prove his presence, not even when things were terrible.

But people still pray, and Castiel finds their blind faith comforting and tragic at the same time.

Occasionally, someone recognizes him. Two sisters stop him in the street and ask if his name is “Cass”. When he answers yes, they look as though they’re going to cry and hug him until he begs them to let them go for the sake of his ribs. When he tries to ask how they know him, they both just shake their heads and walk away. The same thing happens a few days later, when an old black man sitting by the counter in a diner turns on his chair and stares at him for so long Castiel actually blushes.

“You’re him, ain’t ya?” says the man, his voice unreadable.

“Who do you think I am?” 

“The angel,” the man replies, shaking his head. “Shoulda known you’d come out of it okay. Hiding, were ya? Didn’t wanna get yer wings dirty?”

Castiel is intrigued. He stands up and sits beside the man, who pointedly turns away. “How do you know me?” he asks.

The old man sighs and runs trembling fingers over his lips. His fingernails are jagged and crusted in blood. He smells of ash and stale cigarettes. “Was told to find you,” he mutters, staring into the cracked mirror behind the counter. “Spent two years searching high and low, and now here you are, just when I don’t need ya. Son of a bitch.”

“Who told you to find me?”

The man wheezes out a bitter laugh. “Who do you think?”

“You didn’t have the virus.” Castiel leans forward and meets his gaze firmly. “You were possessed, weren’t you?”

A faint laugh. “And the angel wins a shiny penny for bein’ so damn clever.”

Castiel doesn’t answer. He stares at his companion for a moment, thinking hard, before asking, “What about Dean Winchester?”

“Your special friend? Yeah, I was lookin’ for him too. He’s one slippery customer. Never stayed in the same place for long, from what I hear.”

“I’m trying to find him.”

The old man looks down. He rubs at his forehead and sighs. “You’re not the only one. Them demons are after him, too. I hear they want revenge.” He lifts his head and meets Castiel’s gaze for the first time; his eyes are dark, dark brown with whites in their centers. Cataracts. Castiel’s amazed this man can see at all. “If you wanna find him, I’d head south if I were you. I hear that’s where they chased him, bastard that he is.”

Castiel frowns. “That ‘bastard’ killed the Devil for you.”

“That bastard set him free in the first place, so I hear. Kinda hard to feel obliged to a man who destroyed the world. Excuse me if I ain’t got much love in my heart.”

“How far south did he go?”

“Do I look like some kind of GPS device to you?” The old man pushes Castiel away with hands that are surprisingly strong. “Now git outta here and leave me be. I hated you while I was possessed and I hate you now. You were supposed to _save_ us, Castiel. What happened to that? You’re a goddamn coward, is what you are. You and him both. _Cowards._ ”

Castiel leaves the diner. He sits in the car for an hour before his hands stop shaking long enough for him to drive it.

~ ~ ~

Lawrence, Kansas is pristine. 

Every house is intact. All the stores are open. The cars are shiny and in perfect condition. The streets are swept clean of October’s fallen leaves; the streetlights work and the air doesn’t smell of smoke. Castiel drives through the place with his heart thumping and acid churning in his stomach.

This was where Sam Winchester was born. Lucifer let it survive.

There are more people in the city than Castiel has seen in years, all of them going about their business as though absolutely nothing untoward has been happening in the rest of the country. He parks downtown and goes to find a bookstore, needing to buy a map so he can find the cemetery where the Winchester family is buried. The whole time he scans the crowds for Dean, knowing that the old man told him he’d headed south but wondering if he’d decided to stay here. After a while he almost gets a headache from the strain of constantly looking, looking, looking, but he doesn’t stop.

He buys a map, leaves the store and then realizes the shop next door is selling television sets which are actually working in the window display. He stands in front of the glass and stares at them, strangely relieved to see moving pictures again after so long. It feels like normality. One TV is showing something he faintly recognizes as a soap opera; another is showing a football game. The third set is tuned to CNN. He watches the words scrolling under the video images of bomb craters and overcrowded hospitals and he doesn’t know whether it heartens him or not when he reads that over one million Americans have died in the last few months. 

He’d thought the number would be higher.

Castiel watches the broadcast for a long time, learning that many countries overseas have terrible problems of their own – drought, famine, disease. There have been earthquakes and typhoons, tsunami and hurricanes from one end of the Earth to the other. The Arctic ice cap doesn’t exist any more. The economies of dozens of societies have completely collapsed in the wake of the Croatoan virus. People are starving. Dying. It seems that America, as crazy as it would seem, got away lightly.

A group of children laugh shrilly as they race past him, and he steps back and looks around. Lawrence got away lightest of all. He only hopes these people know how lucky they are; as the birthplace of the Devil, they were blessed. 

~ ~ ~

He finds the graveyard that evening, just before dusk. There’s a mound of fresh earth beside Mary Winchester’s grave. At its head is a small wooden cross with the word “Sam” carved into it. 

Dean’s amulet hangs from the cross.

Castiel looks around him at the deserted graveyard, suppressing a shiver as the wind gusts in the trees. Dean has been here. The grave looks a few weeks old, as it should. Dean buried Sam and moved on. He wonders why he didn’t cremate him – Dean’s a hunter, that’s what hunters _do_ – but he can’t figure it out.

Castiel only knows two things now: Dean headed south, and there are demons are after him.

He crouches at the foot of Sam Winchester’s grave and says a prayer for him, although he knows, deep in his heart, that it probably means nothing. He can’t stop himself from reaching out to touch the amulet, but it’s cold in his grip. He studies it for a few moments before sighing and straightening up again.

He leaves Sam behind and goes to find his brother.

~ ~ ~

The days turn into weeks; autumn turns into winter and Castiel never stops looking for Dean. He’s constantly scanning crowds, the faces of countless strangers lining up before him in such numbers that he finds himself dreaming about them at night. He has no idea where his quarry could be. ‘South’ isn’t really much help. It soon becomes abundantly clear that there’s a whole lot of ‘south’. 

And there’s a vast expanse of it that he can’t even enter, too. Texas is cordoned off, its edges patrolled by reservist soldiers. Nobody’s allowed inside unless they can prove they were born there or that they live there now. Texas doesn’t want to be part of the rest of America. Texas tried to control the Croatoan virus in its own way, by seceding from the United States and shutting its borders, but all that happened as a result of its actions was that the President ordered the bombing of Houston. Castiel is a little out of touch with the news; he doesn’t know the whys and wherefores of what happened, but he knows he has to get into Texas in case Dean decided to hide out there. 

However, after encountering troops two days in a row and, on the second day, finding himself frog-marched back to his car and forced to drive away at gunpoint, he decides he probably needs some fake ID. That night he also finds himself wishing Chuck was with him, just so he can use him to help practice an accent the border guards might find convincing. In the end, unable to stop obsessing about it, he calls him and Chuck listens silently as Castiel tries to train his tongue to work around the vowels and consonants of a Texan drawl.

“You suck,” Chuck says eventually, after an incredulous pause. “You haven’t got a snowball’s chance in Hell of convincing them. You’d be better off pretending you’re mute, dude.”

Annoyed, Castiel spends the next day pondering what to do. He’s just outside Waynoka, Oklahoma, and he’s pleased to discover that their library is still open; most public buildings have become temporary homes for refugees these days. He spends an hour using their printer and photocopier to surreptitiously doctor the fake passport Dean had made for him back in 2010, changing his birthplace from San Francisco to Odessa. Studying it afterwards, he thinks he’s done a good job. It looks torn and battered, but that just makes it seem all the more genuine these days.

Waynoka Public Library has a row of computers which are working. He has to wait a while before one comes free and then he sits down and stares at the screen with a frown. He types two words into Google: “Dean Winchester”.

There are 1.9 million results.

He blinks at the screen, stunned, before clicking on “Images”. In between all the photos of Shia LaBeouf in _Route 666_ – and Castiel smiles as he remembers how outraged Dean was that they cast such a “wussy douche” to play him – there’s one photograph repeated over and over, a black and white police mugshot of Dean pulling a strange face and looking far younger than Castiel can remember him being when they met. It’s clearly the only real photo of Dean anybody can find; it’s somehow fitting that it had been taken by the police. 

He looks cocky and carefree. Like the old Dean. The longer Castiel stares at it, the sadder he feels. 

He scans through the links to find the ones that aren’t referencing the Dean Winchester from the movie. There are hundreds of sites that ask, _Have you seen this man?_ , sites possibly set up by the demons hunting him. But there are also sites which proclaim Dean Winchester to be the saviour of mankind. They’re makeshift and messy, many of them nothing more than a place to host a message board, but all the forums and blogs have one thing in common: they claim that the Dean Winchester from the movie and Carver Edlund’s books is real, and that he was the one who put an end to the apocalypse.

Castiel doesn’t know what to make of this. He’s seen the future, the one in which the Winchester Gospel is as popular as the Bible, but it had been a quick fact-finding mission for Zachariah and nothing more. He’d only been able to find out a small amount, enough to give his superiors proof that Chuck Shurley really was a prophet, and to know that the Winchesters really would save the world. Once he’d returned to 2009, however, that future had seemed a distant and unlikely place. The parts of the Winchester Gospel he’d managed to read hadn’t mentioned him disobeying or the angels’ plan to free Lucifer or, indeed, any of the things that he’d lived through since. He wasn’t sure where the story had taken a left turn, but the future he’d seen wasn’t this one.

And yet people are reading Chuck’s books now and believing them. Even though nothing has been published for years, people are discussing how Dean had killed his own brother. The books aren’t fuelling this any more – the Winchesters’ story has become a folk tale, passing from person to person by word and rumor. 

Perhaps the Winchester Gospel was going to be accepted after all.

Castiel’s name keeps jumping out at him as he searches the sites but he seems to be an incidental character, a shadowy, angelic figure Dean turns to for advice every now and then that nobody seems to know very much about. He’s pleased to see he doesn’t play a big role in the stories people are telling, but when curiosity gets the better of him and he Googles his own name, there are still almost a million hits.

And, somehow, there’s a photograph. It’s grainy and washed-out, which makes Castiel think it was probably taken by a security camera somewhere indeterminable, like a gas station forecourt or inside a mall. In it he’s wearing Jimmy’s clothes, that ridiculous coat that was too big for him, and he’s staring unknowingly right into the lens. This is the photograph all the demons had been given to find him with. This is why he is being recognized now.

Castiel feels a chill run down his spine as he studies himself. He’s still an angel in the picture. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. It’s like he can see it in his eyes, even though they’re pixelated and blurry; there’s something behind them, something that seems to be staring right into his soul. He doesn’t look tired or thin or stoned. He looks like an angel wearing a human being. He looks powerful and full of purpose. 

He’d still had faith, back when that was taken. 

The knowledge brings tears to his eyes. He shuts down the page, picks up his bag and leaves the library before anybody notices.

~ ~ ~

It’s all he can do not to buy as much alcohol as he can carry and drink himself into oblivion that night. Only the disgust he feels for wanting to get drunk in the first place keeps him sober. 

That, and the fact he can’t find anywhere that sells it.

~ ~ ~

He successfully crosses into Texas the next day.

Texas is too hot, too dusty and too disorganized for his liking. There’s precious little food and barely any fuel; what there is costs a fortune, and Castiel has to hand over almost all of the money he’d managed to take out of the ATMs in Lawrence. By the time he reaches San Antonio he’s really starting to worry that he won’t be able to find another working cash machine, and nobody in Texas accepts credit cards. Eventually he finds himself having to choose between buying food or filling up the 4x4, and he chooses the latter.

He’s not the only one with problems, though, and he’s humbled by the misery he sees in San Antonio. The city has been swamped with refugees from Houston, many of them injured or sick. Castiel stares around him at the crowds of people sleeping in makeshift tents on the streets and feels guilty for not following the news more closely over the last few months – he doesn’t even know why Palin bombed Houston in the first place. He starts to talk to some of the refugees, struck by the urge to find out, and discovers that the general consensus is that she was trying out prototype ‘dirty’ bombs that would hopefully kill off the Croats and leave the uninfected alone. They’d been her guinea pigs, and all because the state had had the temerity to declare itself independent.

The bombs had killed half a million people, whether they were infected or not. 

Castiel wonders how the hell he’d missed all of this. He wonders what he’d been taking the day it had happened, how Dean must have reacted, whether anybody at the camp had family or friends in Houston. All he can recall is Risa mentioning that Houston was gone and him shrugging and taking a swig of beer, totally failing to comprehend the importance of her words. He’d been such a self-centred, selfish bastard back then. How the hell had they all put up with him? How the hell had _Dean_ put up with him? 

He gives the remains of his money to a woman weeping outside a fire-gutted school and leaves the city behind.

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel realizes he’s heading for Mexico when he’s only a few hours away from the border, but he only makes it far as Encinal before he runs out of gas. The town’s unusually quiet and it gives him the chills as he draws up on its empty main street, looking around him uneasily as he steers the silent vehicle to a halt by the kerb. He can’t see any gas stations but there has to be one somewhere. Once he’s found it, he’ll have two more things to worry about: whether it has gas and how the hell he can pay for it.

There’s a beautiful sunset settling over the town as he walks for a few blocks, not that he looks at it with more than a passing glance; he’d decided to stop admiring the sunsets a few months back, once he’d realized they were a result of all the pollution in the atmosphere generated by Lucifer’s disasters. It’s not too hot now the day’s almost over and there are insects humming as the evening approaches. A dog barks somewhere off in the distance and he can hear music drifting faintly on the breeze, though it’s hard to pin down where it’s coming from. Otherwise, Encinal is far, far too quiet.

Every other town Castiel has visited in Texas had been crammed with people fleeing the Houston disaster, but this one seems to have been forgotten. It worries him. Something else must have happened here, something that’s keeping people away, but he has no idea what it could have been. If he was still an angel he’d have been able to sense it, but like this… well, he’s hopeless.

For the first time since the day he’d stormed into the building after saying goodbye to Dean, Castiel feels scared. It’s not a feeling he’s familiar with and it makes him sweat. He’s a little light-headed, too, because he hasn’t eaten since yesterday, and the further he walks into the town the sicker he feels.

He has no choice but to search for the gas station, though. When the streetlights flicker into wakefulness overhead he jumps, but then feels heartened; the town has power, so that’s a good sign. And the music’s getting louder, so he’s heading towards life. There are people here after all. Maybe he can persuade them to help him. Maybe–

“Lost, are ya?”

Castiel almost stumbles in surprise when the voice sounds in his ear. He whirls around, instantly defensive, but the man grinning at him on the sidewalk doesn’t look like a threat. He looks perfectly ordinary: fresh-faced and scrubbed clean, dressed in a plaid shirt and slacks that are a little too big on him, like he’s lost weight recently. It’s a look Castiel’s familiar with. Everybody’s clothes are too big for them these days. He blinks at him for a few seconds, trying to decide whether he should trust this guy or run like hell – he still has that _feeling_ , like something’s terribly wrong – but then the man frowns and asks, “Are you okay, sonny?” and Castiel recklessly decides that he’s too tired to worry about it any more.

“I need gas for my car,” he says, clearing his throat first. “You’re right, I’m a bit lost. I don’t know which way to go.”

“There’s Ted’s place, just four blocks over,” says the guy, nodding in the right direction. “He had a delivery yesterday, so he’s all fuelled up.”

“Great, thanks.” Castiel looks across at the empty street, following his companion’s gaze. “Do you know if he takes cards? Or if there’s–” 

The fist comes out of nowhere and lands in his gut so hard that white light starbursts behind Castiel’s eyes. He’s on his back before he even knows what’s hit him, hands clutching his stomach and lungs straining for breath, and then the guy’s straddling his waist a second later, throwing his hands to either side with terrifying ease. Castiel can’t move, can’t speak – all he can do is gasp and wheeze as the pain envelops him, pain that’s still unfamiliar and horribly real.

“It’s you, ain’t it?” says the demon, and Castiel sees black eyes slide into place in the glow from the streetlights above him. “You’re Castiel. Fuck me if you ain’t him.”

“W-who?” he manages to croak, but playing innocent isn’t going to win this guy over. A hand grips Castiel’s chin and squeezes so hard it feels as though his jawbone is going to crack under the fingers; somehow, he finds the air to moan as it happens.

“All this time and then you come walking into demon central, bold as brass. Who’d have thunk it?” The demon grins, clearly delighted with its new prize. “And I saw you _first._ ”

He raises his head and looks up the road, and suddenly Castiel understands that the music he can hear is coming from a bar, and that bar must be filled with demons. He’d almost stumbled right into it. One demon versus a roomful? He’ll take these odds, thanks. With that he starts to struggle wildly, but he doesn’t stand a chance as a human: this creature is way too strong for him, and it holds him still so easily Castiel could weep. He doesn’t, though. He swears defiantly instead, spitting on his captor for good measure. 

All it does is make the demon laugh. “You’re definitely no angel any more, are ya? But it’s all in there, isn’t it? You lost your wings, but all your angel thoughts are still cramming up that headspace of yours.” He leans down until his lips are resting over Castiel’s left ear and whispers, “I want them.”

A hand forces his mouth open and Castiel stifles a scream as black smoke pours down his throat… then coughs and chokes down vomit as it streams straight back out again and into the man, who gags and roars in anger. He tries once more but the demon is repelled again; the ward Dean drew on Castiel’s skin all that time ago is clearly doing its job. He spares himself a moment to feel triumphant but he knows it’s only temporary. A ward is only a defence when it’s complete – one slash to break the design and it’s useless.

The demon knows it, too. “Where’s that fucking tattoo?” he barks, slapping Castiel’s face hard enough to daze him. Fingers tear at his shirt as they search and Castiel’s eyes follow the demon’s hand helplessly as it reaches for the knife tucked into its boot. 

“My back,” he gasps, and the demon instantly rolls him over and rips the remains of his shirt and t-shirt off in one swift movement. There’s a pause as he stares at the seven sigils inked between Castiel’s shoulderblades, and then the cold tip of the knife meets his skin.

Castiel says the two words that will activate the spell. He cringes as the power surges through him with ferocious speed and strength, the ancient runes on his back igniting and flaring in the presence of evil, just as they are meant to do. The demon screams as light overwhelms it, light so bright Castiel has to bury his face in his hands as he flattens himself on the concrete, and then everything goes black and silence settles upon the street. 

He removes his hands from his face and blinks, thinking for a moment that he’s gone blind, but one glance upwards tells him that the streetlight above his head has simply exploded. He pushes himself to his hands and knees and looks behind him at the demon, or what’s left of it, anyway; it’s mess of burnt skin and seared muscle. The smell of charred flesh hangs heavy in the air and Castiel coughs as it hits the back of his throat. The coughing rapidly turns into something else and suddenly he’s bent over, retching miserably as the pain from the spent wards on his back arches through him. They’re disappearing from his skin, burning off his body one by one; they’re only meant to be used once. This is probably the first time they’ve ever been used on a human instead of an angel. Castiel only asked Dean to put them there on a whim, and they just saved his life. 

He vomits up water because there’s nothing in his stomach, then pulls the remnants of his shirt around him as he staggers to his feet. He feels terrible – the after-effects of the spell have left him shaken and dizzy, and his ears are ringing from the demon’s screams. He looks up and down the street but they don’t seem to have been observed or overheard, which is more than he could have hoped for, and he’s alive. Headache or not, he’s grateful.

Castiel takes a few steps back the way he came before being struck by a thought. Wrinkling his nose, he kneels beside the corpse and checks the pockets of its jacket, which is singed but not entirely ruined; the spell was aimed at flesh, not cloth. He finds a wallet. Inside it is over two hundred bucks. 

He smiles and limps away, but has to stop and throw up twice before he makes it back to the car. Then he loads his bags into a green Dodge pickup parked nearby, spends half an hour trying to start the engine without a key – not as easy as Dean made it look – and drives away.

~ ~ ~

Castiel doesn’t sleep well that night, and not just because he’s uncomfortable in the unfamiliar seats of the pickup. His back is burning and even though he knows it’s not serious, just the after-effects of the spell, it’s painful enough to chase sleep away. He lies in the dark beside Interstate 35 and listens to the wind blowing the grass outside the window, thinking about luck and providence. He should be dead. Or, at the very least, possessed. 

He’d asked Dean to tattoo him back in 2012, just after he’d lost his powers. If he’d still been an angel the tattoos would have vanished as his skin renewed the damaged cells – but then again, if he’d still been an angel he wouldn’t have needed them. Getting tattooed was pretty definite proof that he wasn’t a celestial entity any more. As Castiel remembered it, it had been a depressing day. He’d been drunk for most of it.

He’d drawn out the designs for Dean, who’d studied them carefully before tracing them onto Castiel’s shoulderblades. It had been painful, probably the first time he’d ever felt pain as a human, but he’d bitten his lip and remained stoic. The alcohol had helped, of course. When Dean had finished he’d handed him a beer and said, “Halfway there. Where do you want the other one?”

It was the anti-possession tattoo Dean had insisted everybody in the camp get inked on them somewhere. Several of his soldiers had shaved their heads and had it inscribed on their scalps like a cap. The women thought they were cool and had them on their midriffs so they could show them off above their low-slung jeans. Dean had probably tattooed thirty people by this point, and Castiel was drunk enough to decide he wanted something different from everyone else. He’d been struck by an urge to shock his friend, so he’d dropped his pants and turned his back.

“Jerk,” Dean had said, but that was the only reaction Castiel got from him. He’d tattooed his left buttock, Castiel had carried on drinking, and when Dean had finished and slapped him hard on his butt, right over the new design he’d just drawn there, Castiel had choked so hard at the pain that beer had come out of his nose.

Castiel remembers that night well because it had been the last time he’d seen Dean laugh without restraint. The next day they’d heard about Detroit and Sam, and after that the only laugh Dean had ever managed was a bitter one; the kind of laugh that was more like pain than humor. 

Castiel misses it. He misses Dean. He misses companionship and conversation, comfortable silences and the knowledge that someone gives a damn about him. He talks to Chuck a lot but it’s not the same as having him with him and besides, Chuck isn’t the person he _wants_ to talk to. This is the longest he’s been away from Dean for years – Dean was a constant in his life, something to be certain of, a friend and a partner. They’d treated each other badly and they’d argued and bitched and moaned, true, but underneath it all they’d always been there for each other. Now there’s nothing.

Castiel lies in the truck and stares out of the window at the stars, wondering if Dean’s looking at the same ones now. He wonders if this quest he’s on to find his friend is a wild goose chase. He may never find Dean; Dean might not want to be found. Dean could be dead by now, or possessed, or crazy. Castiel has absolutely no idea what’s happened to him, only that he needs to know.

He thinks about what he’ll say to Dean when he sees him, but he doesn’t have a clue. He only knows he wants to see him more than anything, because Dean is all he has.

~ ~ ~

Getting into Mexico is easy – far easier than it was to get into Texas – but as Castiel drives through border control he’s staggered by the sheer number of vehicles queuing to enter the United States from the other side. Or at least they _think_ they’re entering the United States: actually they’re entering the new country of Texas, and Texas has decided it’s got enough people to worry about already, thank you, and so most of the cars are being turned away. The vehicles perform awkward u-turns on the scorching, shimmering tarmac before reluctantly heading back home, passing hundreds of other hopefuls who are in line to face the same disappointment.

Now Castiel has seen life in Texas, he has a suspicion most of these people will be better off staying where they are.

And Mexico surprises him. It’s actually in pretty good shape: there’s food, fuel, power, even internet cafes. Whatever crap went down across the world with the Croatoan virus and the disasters, it seems a lot of it bypassed this country. Castiel doesn’t know why, but he’s grateful when he reaches a hotel that has empty rooms and checks in right away, middle of the day or not. He needs a shower and he needs to sleep in a proper bed for the first time in months and everything else can wait, even Dean. 

He’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow and doesn’t open his eyes again for fourteen hours, which is when the sound of cheering and fireworks bring him lurching out of a confusing, muddled dream with a startled gasp. 

He sits up, rubbing his eyes in the early morning sunlight, and climbs out of bed. Stretching, he pads over to the window to see what all the noise is about. People are dancing in the street. He watches them for a while, puzzled, seeing them brandish newspapers with headlines he can’t make out before remembering his room has a television set. He turns it on, finds a news channel and his jaw drops. 

President Palin has been impeached. Not only that, but she’s being prosecuted for war crimes against her own people. Castiel stares at the screen, amazed and not a little thrilled, and laughs aloud when the newscaster reports that she claims to have been “possessed by a demon”. Nobody believes her. Which is funny because everybody believes in demon possessions these days; too many people were ridden by demons for it to be put down to mass hysteria or mental illness, and yet Palin’s protestations still fall on deaf ears. She wasn’t possessed. She was just _wrong_. That’s all there is to it.

Her successor is a young, nervous-looking Senator named William Fitch who doesn’t look at all confident to be taking over the running of the most powerful country on Earth. Then again, it’s not as though Congress have many Senators to choose from these days, but at least this one’s never ordered the bombing of Texas, so he’s already ahead in the public’s estimations. Castiel mentally wishes him luck, flicks off the TV and goes back to the window, watching the citizens of America’s sister country dance and sing to celebrate the loss of a world leader they hated. It’s surprisingly inspirational, and for the first time in an age Castiel feels a little hopeful. 

It’s not helping him find Dean, though, so he checks out of the hotel an hour later and begins his search afresh.

~ ~ ~

Weeks pass and Dean is nowhere. He could be in California or Seattle or Timbuktu for all Castiel knows; he’s only guessing that his friend is in Mexico, after all. Days of endless, fruitless searching start to take their toll, and as Christmas comes and goes Castiel finds that it’s getting more and more difficult to focus. He’s itching for something, and it’s not just Dean.

January rolls on, and Castiel wants a drink. 

Alcohol is everywhere in Mexico; people seem to be drinking all the time. It’s a hot country and the beer is cold. Castiel becomes more and more aware of the fact with every town he visits, his gaze lingering on the people drinking in taverns with such reckless abandon, as though the alcohol they’re consuming is no more dangerous than water. Castiel knows different. He’s seen the person he becomes when he’s drunk and he doesn’t want to ever see that person again, but sometimes… 

It’s hard. He’s been around death and destruction; he’s killed and _been_ killed. He’s lost everything he ever knew. He’s lost friends – Uriel, Anna, Sam, Bobby and now Dean. He even lost himself for a long time, and his actions during that period still haunt his conscience. He’s lonely and he’s miserable and, worst of all, he’s losing hope. Dean hasn’t contacted Chuck or interacted with anybody they know; despite him being discussed on the internet all the time, there are no sightings for Castiel to follow up. Trying to find him had seemed like such a good idea, so _achievable_ , when Castiel left Camp Chitaqua, but now, five months on, it’s hard to imagine he’ll ever find his quarry.

Dean seems to be gone for good. The thought of never seeing his friend again is enough to make Castiel despair, and the last time he’d been filled with despair getting drunk had been the perfect way to deal with it. With every day that goes by with no sign of Dean, Castiel wants to give in just a little bit more.

He’s in some tiny town with a name he can’t remember when the feeling gets so bad he nearly caves in and heads to the nearest bar. It’s touch and go for a while as he stands by the pickup and stares down the street at the welcoming lights a hundred meters away, trying to talk himself out of walking towards them and asking the bartender for a million drinks at once when he gets there. His feet move forward before he can stop himself, but then he feels the heavy weight of his cellphone in the back of his jeans and somehow summons up the strength to call Chuck instead. He needs moral support. He needs a friend. He needs someone to remind him what he’s doing here. He needs someone to tell him _no_.

It takes a while for Chuck to pick up, and the whole time Castiel feels his palms sweating and his breath catching in his throat, knowing that this is his only chance. If Chuck doesn’t answer, he’s going to give in. He’s going to get drunk and then it’ll be the end of everything because he’ll never be able to stop. He hasn’t got the strength to give up twice: this time he’ll sink so low it’ll kill him.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

He’s not there. Chuck’s not there. This is going to happen. Castiel is going to fall–

“H-hello?”

The relief’s almost physical. “Chuck,” he says, his voice deep with desperation, after a few moments spent gathering himself together.

There’s a long silence before Chuck replies, “Cas? Is that you? I was just… that’s so freakin’ _weird_ , man… I was just dreaming about you.”

Castiel looks at his watch and realizes it’s two in the morning where his friend is. Oops. “Did I wake you up?” he asks stupidly, before Chuck’s words sink in and he adds, “You were dreaming about me? Was it a vision?”

Chuck sounds a little disoriented, which makes sense seeing as he’s just woken up. He clears his throat before he answers, clearly trying to come to terms with the fact he’s awake and talking all of a sudden. “I don’t know… I don’t think so. You were just standing on a beach, is all. Nothing was happening. You were just there. Looking at the sea. It was super-peaceful, like paradise or something.” He pauses. “It didn’t feel like a prophecy. I don’t have those dreams any more.”

Castiel turns back to the pickup, moving his gaze away from the bar at the end of the street. “So you’re dreaming about me, huh?” he says, trying and probably failing to inject some humor into his voice. “You must miss me.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Cas,” Chuck answers with a trace of irritation. “What’s up? Did you find Dean?”

“No.” Castiel stops, his next words sticking in his throat. He tries to speak three times before he finally manages to choke out, “Chuck, I want to get drunk. I need you to stop me.”

There’s another silence, and then Chuck sighs. “That’s tough, man. I wish I was there.”

Castiel laughs bitterly. “Yeah, I wish you were here too.”

“Where are you, anyway?”

Castiel can’t remember, so he just says, “Somewhere in the south.”

“You’re still in Mexico?”

“Apparently so.”

“No Dean?”

“No Dean.” Castiel’s voice cracks.

“You’ll find him. I know you will.”

“Is that Prophet Chuck speaking?”

Chuck huffs. “I kinda wish it was. Look, Cas… I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. ‘Don’t get drunk’ probably won’t cut it, huh?”

Castiel leans on the pickup and slides down the side until he’s on the floor, leaning his back against the cool metal and trying to let it ground him. “It helps,” he confirms, and it takes all his willpower to stop his voice from shaking. “Just having someone to speak to helps. It’s kind of... lonely down here, you know?” 

He feels pathetic saying it, but it’s true. Thankfully Chuck seems to understand. He remembers how Chuck doesn’t judge people and it makes him feel better.

“You need a vacation,” his friend says matter-of-factly. “You need a break. Go find a beach and look at the sea, like in my dream. Go swimming. Learn to surf.”

“Beaches don’t really interest me, Chuck. And I can’t swim.” 

“Then learn to swim and _then_ learn to surf.” Chuck pauses before saying incredulously, “Are you telling me you’ve been in Mexico all this time and you’ve never once sampled the beach life?”

“I haven’t even seen the sea.”

“That’s what you’re doin’ wrong, Cas!” Chuck sounds triumphant. “You need to go and be a beach bum for a while. Get some sea air, watch the waves. Dammit, now I’m jealous.”

Castiel rubs his eyes, already feeling better. There’s something about the effortless way Chuck can look on the bright side of things that’s contagious. “Okay, I’ll find a beach tomorrow,” he promises thickly. “I think I’m fairly near the coast right now.”

“Great. You do that and forget all this _Leaving Las Vegas_ crap. You don’t need the booze, Cas. You’re better than that.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, because he’s not, so instead he focuses on the part of Chuck’s sentence that he doesn’t understand. “I’m nowhere near Las Vegas,” he points out, “so how can I leave it?”

Chuck snorts. “It’s a movie, Cas. Nicolas Cage plays an alcoholic who goes to Las Vegas to die. Uh, not that I’m saying you’re an alcoholic or anything, dude.”

“You don’t have to say it. It’s true.”

There’s a moment of silence and then Chuck says, “But you’ve got more hair than Nicolas Cage has. At least you have something going for you.”

Castiel laughs and it feels good. Encouraged, Chuck continues talking about Cage while Castiel half-listens, simply enjoying the enthusiasm in his friend’s voice. He stares at the lights of the tavern and realizes they’re blurring a little. By the time his thoughts come back to the conversation, Chuck’s nattering on about a film called _Ghost Rider_.

“That sounds good,” Castiel interjects when Chuck falls silent, though he wasn’t really paying attention to what he was saying. “I’ll have to see that one.”

“You’ve already seen it, you doofus,” Chuck corrects him. “That night in Chicago, before Dean pulled that heist to get that magic sword that didn’t amount to diddly squat. Don’t you remember? It’s the film where Cage’s head was a fiery skull.”

Castiel frowns, surprised. “Oh. You mean that was the way he was supposed to look? I thought I was having a bad reaction to the LSD I’d taken the day before.”

Chuck sighs, but even down the phone it sounds less ‘exasperated’ and more ‘fond’. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

“I’m less hopeless now I’ve spoken to you.” Castiel wonders if that makes him sound like too much of a girl, then smiles sadly as he realizes he’s thinking like Dean. “Thanks, Chuck,” he adds, wishing there was some way he could pay his friend back for being there for him. “I think I’m okay now.”

“No problemo, buddy.” Chuck yawns. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to try to start that dream up again, only I’m putting myself on that beach and surrounding myself with a bunch of Hawaiian Tropic babes.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. Goodnight.”

“Night, Cas. Get some rest, okay? And then go feel the sand between your toes.”

After he’s gone, Castiel stares down at the phone in his hand for a while, listening to the music drifting towards him from the bar. Then he shakes his head, climbs in the pickup and heads to the nearest beach he can find so he can watch the sun rise over the sea in a few hours’ time.

~ ~ ~

The beach at Zihuatanejo is sandy and seems to go on for miles. The sea is so blue it almost hurts Castiel’s eyes, and he forgot to bring his sunglasses with him when he left the car so he has to squint awkwardly against the glare of the sun on the water. But it’s beautiful and the beach is peaceful, deserted in the early morning calm. It’s just him, the soft whoosh of the waves hitting the shore and a few swirling gulls who ride the air currents and make him yearn for his long-lost wings.

Chuck was right: this is paradise. He wishes he’d found it sooner, but he was too busy searching for Dean.

He’ll never find him. Castiel realizes it now. He takes a lungful of fresh sea air and sighs, mourning his friend. Giving up doesn’t feel as bad as he’d thought it would be – this isn’t admitting defeat, it’s being realistic. If Dean wants to find him, he will. Until then, Castiel will have to get on with his life. He’ll have to make new friends, settle down, earn money and exist the same way everybody else on the planet does. He can’t chase a ghost to the ends of the Earth any more. It’s destroying him.

 _I’m sorry, Dean,_ he thinks, and closes his eyes and raises his face to the sun.

Something uncomfortably sharp presses into the small of his back and Castiel senses a presence behind him a millisecond later. 

He tenses, his eyes snapping open to the blinding glare of the sun, and then Dean Winchester says in his ear, “I don’t know what you are, you son of a bitch, but you’re not making it off this beach alive.”

~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

_2\. Zihautanejo ~ The ‘Sidewinder’_

 

 

Every ounce of air leaves Castiel’s lungs in one paralyzing rush; shock darts through his body. He doesn’t even have to turn round: he knows that voice and he can sense who it is, like suddenly he’s surrounded in pheromones; like _Dean_ is everywhere. He gulps for breath and his skin bursts into goosebumps and yet, still, there’s a knife at his back and Dean’s voice sounds anything but friendly. This isn’t necessarily a good thing and his instincts tell him to be careful, but he doesn’t heed them.

“Dean,” he breathes, and tries to turn around. He manages to catch the briefest glimpse of the shape standing behind him before a fist connects with his cheek and he’s eating a mouthful of sand on the ground. Spluttering, he finds himself being dragged over to a boat that’s been pulled half onto the shore and then, in the blink of an eye, he’s got handcuffs around both wrists securing him to a metal hoop at the side of it. It happens so quickly that his head spins.

“Got you,” says Dean, his voice deep and vicious.

Castiel is on his knees and still spitting out sand as he looks up at his friend for the first time in five months.

The beard’s the first change he notices, followed by the fact Dean’s hair has grown a lot, although most of it’s hidden under a blue baseball cap. He’s wearing a long-sleeved green t-shirt, shorts and sandals and his legs are deeply suntanned, as is his face. He looks a damn sight thinner than Castiel’s ever seen him and his cheeks appear sunken beneath the facial hair, but his eyes are bright with suspicion and menace as he glares down his prisoner. There’s a silver knife in his hand and a gun tucked into his shorts. He’s wearing a cross around his neck on a leather string and looks nothing like the old Dean. He’s trying to blend in, Castiel thinks. He’s trying to look like an ordinary American guy vacationing in Mexico, someone who isn’t Demon Enemy Number One; absolutely not the human who killed Lucifer.

Castiel has just enough time to think all this before Dean backhands him roughly across the face. This time, he remembers to close his mouth before he hits the sand.

“What are you?” Dean demands, placing the knife at Castiel’s throat.

“It’s me!” Castiel grunts, trying to remember how to speak amidst the shock of the last few seconds. 

“Really? I guess so, then. My dead friends are always taking trips down to Mexico to pay me a social call.”

Castiel blinks, breathing hard. “You… you think I died? I didn’t die, Dean. It’s really me!”

The silver knife pricks against his neck and Castiel hisses as it draws blood. Dean watches his face for a few seconds, judging his reaction, then pockets the knife and points his gun between Castiel’s eyes. “Okay, so you’re not a shapeshifter. What the hell are you? You’ve got ten seconds and then I blow your head off anyway. If it doesn’t kill you, I’m betting it’ll still piss you off.”

Considering the situation, Castiel should probably feel fear or panic; a sudden swell of anger surges through him instead. After all this time, Dean doesn’t even believe it’s _him?_

“You stupid paranoid pain in the ass!” he shouts, tugging against the cuffs. “It’s me! Why the hell would I lie to you? Have you any idea how much trouble I’ve gone through to find you? How long I’ve been _searching_? What the hell were you thinking, going off like that without a word to anybody? I’ve been worried sick and this is how you react when I finally catch up with you?”

Dean frowns, but he continues to count down. “Four… three… two…”

“That’s Bobby’s baseball cap,” Castiel tells him urgently. “How would I know that if I was just pretending to be me?”

“…One.” But Dean doesn’t pull the trigger. He stares at him thoughtfully and tilts his head to one side. “Lucky guess,” he offers, sounding utterly unconvinced.

“You always remove beer caps with your ring,” Castiel adds, before noticing that Dean’s not wearing anything on his fingers now. But it doesn’t matter – he’s just scrabbling for any information he can think of to prove that he knows him. He thinks hard and remembers a random conversation they’d had a few years back. “When you were a kid, you always wanted to go on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride but your dad wouldn’t take you.”

Dean’s face twitches but he doesn’t say a word. Castiel finds he can’t think of anything else to talk about that isn’t miserable. “You cheated on Risa the night before you killed Lucifer,” he recounts. “You didn’t speak for three days after we lost Bobby. You–”

“Shut up,” Dean warns him dangerously, pressing the gun hard at the top of Castiel’s nose. 

But Castiel can’t stop talking: this is Dean, at last, and the thought that he doesn’t believe him is so infuriating he can’t help himself. “You once told me that if I didn’t stop drinking you’d put rat poison in my vodka,” he remembers, and chokes out a bitter laugh. “I still have no idea if you were joking or not.”

Dean’s expression is cold and hard, but he lowers the gun a little at that. “I was,” he says quietly. “Though I didn’t want you to think that.”

“It didn’t work,” Castiel tells him, dropping his voice. “I wouldn’t quit. But I have now. I quit so I could find you.”

Dean shakes his head. “No way could you have followed me, Cas,” he says, and just hearing his name on his friend’s lips makes Castiel’s heart leap a little. “I covered my tracks. I’m in another _country_ , for fuck’s sake! How could anybody find me?”

Castiel can’t really answer that; he doesn’t even know himself how he did it. Dean’s eyes narrow at the silence. “How _did_ you find me? Did you pray to God or something?”

Castiel opens his mouth to deny it, but then he remembers his conversation with Chuck and how Chuck had been dreaming about him standing on a beach. If he hadn’t spoken to him – if Chuck hadn’t had that dream – he wouldn’t be here. There was something peculiar about that, something that hinted at powerful forces at work, and as Castiel pauses to consider it Dean’s face falls and he takes a step backwards. The gun ends up pointing at Castiel’s forehead and Dean’s hand is shaking.

“You’re not him,” Dean says. “He doesn’t think God’s up there any more than I do.”

“You’re wearing a cross,” Castiel points out desperately. 

“It belonged to a friend. And, in case you haven’t noticed, religion is the new black. Everybody’s wearing crosses these days. It helps me fit in.”

“It’s me, Dean,” Castiel pleads. “It really is. I don’t know what else I can say to convince you.”

“You died the day I killed Lucifer.”

“No, I didn’t. I was injured, that’s all.”

“I heard the gunfire, Cas. Nobody got out of there alive. I know it.”

Castiel looks down at himself and lifts his arms as far as the handcuffs will let them go. “Lift up my t-shirt.”

Dean snorts. “What, are you flirting with me now?”

“Just do it.”

Dean hesitates, but curiosity gets the better of him. Keeping the gun trained firmly on his prisoner’s right eye, he reaches down and pulls up the cotton to reveal the ugly scar running along Castiel’s ribs. His expression doesn’t change at all as he stares at it.

“I was stabbed,” Castiel explains, putting as much sincerity as he can muster into his voice. “I nearly died, but I didn’t. It’s me, Dean. I found you.”

Dean doesn’t move for at least a minute. Then, just as Castiel thinks he’s buckling, he surprises him by placing a hand on his shoulder and twisting him round so that he can look at his back. Dean lifts the t-shirt again and then he lets him go, rising to his feet with an angry growl.

“I tattooed your back,” he growls. “You explain what happened to those tattoos and I’ll let you go.”

_Dammit. Of all the things for him to notice._ “I used them to fight off a demon,” Castiel says earnestly. “Once I’d used the spell, they disappeared.” He keeps his gaze and his voice steady, but Dean’s eyes are filled with suspicion and Castiel realizes he’s fighting a losing battle here. 

“You’re not him,” says his friend, his words flat and unemotional. “But you want to know something? Even if you were, I’d still leave you here. I don’t want to be followed. I don’t want you or anybody else in my life. That’s all in the past, y’hear me? I want nothing to do with you.”

A cold sweat breaks out on Castiel’s skin and he suddenly feels sick. “You don’t mean that,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Dean, after all this time…”

“I’m not going to kill you today, but if you follow me I will. You got that?” Dean pokes him on the shoulder with the gun before tucking it back into his shorts. “I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time for you, whatever you are. I don’t care if you’re some creature messing with the memory of a dead man or if you’re really him – both of you are dead to me. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

He turns and walks away. Castiel’s throat is so dry he can barely summon enough saliva to call after him, but Dean doesn’t look back. Castiel shouts his name for as long as he can see him; he pulls desperately on his cuffs, trying to follow despite the weight of the boat holding him back, but there’s nothing he can do. Dean disappears over the slope at the top of the beach and Castiel screams a final “ _Dean!_ ” to nothing but thin air.

~ ~ ~ 

He’s stuck there for two hours before someone comes along and, after a lot of explaining and some frantic lying, Castiel convinces them to go and find a hacksaw, then to saw through his cuffs. The moment he’s released he barely even says thank you before he’s running in the direction Dean disappeared – and that’s all he does for the entire day. Run. He runs everywhere. He searches for Dean for hour after hour, talking to the locals and discovering they haven’t seen him. After that he jumps in his pickup and drives, but he has no idea which direction Dean took and there are too many roads out of Zihuatanejo for him to cover them all. He drives through the night and into the next day and searches as hard as he can, but Dean is gone.

_Now leave me the fuck alone,_ Dean had said.

The moment Castiel realizes it’s hopeless, he heads for the nearest bar.

~ ~ ~

He gets astonishingly drunk astonishingly fast. He’d clearly built up a tolerance before that’s totally gone now; he gets wasted so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. And yet it’s also exactly what he wants and it doesn’t stop him from trying to get even _more_ drunk, either. He downs drink after drink, mixing tequila with beer and margaritas and every other flavour of booze they have behind the bar without thinking twice. He buys rounds for everybody using the credit card Dean took out in a stranger’s name four years beforehand, not even worrying that once it’s maxed out he’ll have no way of supporting himself. All he cares about is drowning his sorrows, and drown them he does.

All those months, and it never once occurred to him that Dean wouldn’t want to see him. That Dean would tell him to get lost. That Dean wouldn’t _care_. And without Dean, Castiel is nothing. Dean was his first connection to humanity when he was an angel. Dean was the reason he joined humanity after thousands of years as one of God’s soldiers. Because of Dean Castiel’s entire existence changed. Because of Dean there is no future for Castiel because a future without Dean in it just doesn’t feel right. Because of Dean… he’s drunk.

By nightfall he can’t even remember why he’s drinking, only that he’s enjoying the numbness of his body and brain. He’s thrown up three times already, and after each time he’d washed his face, staggered out of the restroom and ordered another drink. The bartender should probably have cut him off hours ago, but there’s money to be made from this crazy American who just won’t quit and so new drinks materialize every time Castiel wants them. It’s not like he’s causing anybody any trouble, after all; he just sits quietly and stares at nothing. He doesn’t speak. He just drinks, and it goes on and on for hours. 

By midnight he’s so slaughtered the bartender finally orders him home. Castiel tips him – or thinks he does, as he could just have easily have handed him a handful of nuts from the bar instead of coins because his vision’s so screwy – and almost falls off his stool as he tries to stand. Walking is problematic but achievable with a lot of concentration, and somehow he manages to find his way to his car unaided. Climbing in the back so that he can pass out, however, is far more difficult than it looks. He makes three attempts to crawl into the flatbed and all of them fail. He can’t quite figure out why, but has a feeling it has something to do with getting his feet off the ground in the correct sequence of movements.

“Having a little trouble?” somebody asks him in Spanish, and Castiel turns to see who it is while he hangs onto the side of the Dodge for support. There are three young men standing behind him with smiles on their faces. Dimly, he remembers them staring at him back at the bar. As far as he’s concerned, that makes them all friends now.

He smiles back at them and mumbles, “I thin’ I need a leg-up.”

“We’ll help you,” says the first man, spreading his hands in front of him. “For a fee, of course.”

“Or you could just give us all your money anyway,” says the second.

The third pulls out a knife and it glints in the moonlight.

Castiel blinks at them, trying to figure out why his friends suddenly look threatening, and then he sighs in frustration. “I can fight,” he tells them primly, because he thinks it’s only fair they should know. “One touch and you’ll be asleep. Burn the demons right outta ya. That’s what I’ll do.”

“Sure,” says the first man. “We’re quaking in our boots.”

They step forward as one. Castiel lifts his fists. The first guy reaches out to him and Castiel punches him hard on the jaw, knocking him to his knees with a muffled curse, but Castiel wasn’t expecting the impact to hurt and he yelps in pain, cradling his fist to his chest instinctively. The second guy kicks him hard in the knee and he buckles, hitting the dusty ground with a grunt, and then a foot connects with his jaw and he’s sprawled on his back staring up at the stars as all three men kick him repeatedly. He’s too drunk to feel the pain as sharply as he should, but it still hurts like hell and they don’t let up, not even when he curls into a ball and begs them to stop. He’s sobbing by the time it ends, and he’s so wrapped up in his own misery if doesn’t even occur to him to wonder _why_ it’s ended until he hears the gunshot.

He lifts his head weakly. One of the men is lying on his back a few feet away, his arms wrapped around his chest. The other men are running into the distance and, after groaning a few times, their fallen comrade climbs to his feet and limps after them, flicking his gaze behind him anxiously as he moves, like he expects someone to plug him in the ass with a bullet at any minute.

Castiel turns his head to see who he’s looking at. It’s Dean. He’s holding a shotgun Castiel knows must have been loaded with rock salt and he’s glaring at the robbers like he’s really going to kill them. By the time he lowers his eyes to the floor and looks at Castiel, the men are nowhere to be seen.

“So it’s definitely the real you, then,” Dean says gruffly. “Nobody else would be this stupid or this drunk.”

Castiel really wants to tell him to go screw himself, but his stomach chooses that moment to reacquaint him with some of the liquid he’s drunk tonight and he throws up in the dirt instead. 

~ ~ ~

He can’t remember much after that, aside from lots of swearing from his companion and half a bottle of warm water being forced down his throat. Eventually he finds himself sprawled out on an unfamiliar bed and lifts his head awkwardly to see that Dean is taking off his shoes for him, which strikes him as funny and so he laughs until the pain from his new bruises make everything not so funny any more. 

He watches blearily as Dean wanders around the unknown room and picks up bits and pieces, putting them in his bag and pulling the drawstring tight with a small frown on his forehead. Castiel’s too drunk to be able to make any judgments about what’s happening or why Dean came back, but he _does_ know that it looks as though he’s about to leave him again. 

“No,” he groans, and Dean looks up at him sharply. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“You’re drunk,” Dean says flatly. “Get some sleep.”

“ _No,_ ” Castiel repeats, and he holds out a dust-stained hand. “It took me five months to find you. Don’t go.”

Dean sighs. “Cas….”

“Please,” Castiel begs, pride be damned. He twitches his fingers in mid-air and Dean stares at them. “All this time. A’least gimme one night. Be here when I wake up.”

Dean looks at the door. He rubs a hand over his beard and seems to be giving it an awful lot of thought; his expression is icy. Castiel moans and wiggles his fingers again, not caring that he’s acting so pathetically, and after what seems like forever Dean drops his bag and wraps his hands around Castiel’s palm with a grip that’s strong and firm and the most wonderful thing Castiel has ever felt.

“You’re a total pain in the ass, you know that, right?” Dean says darkly, but there’s a little warmth in his eyes and his hands are even warmer, so Castiel smiles and passes out without thinking for one minute that his friend won’t be there when he wakes up.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Dean’s not there when he wakes up. 

At first Castiel doesn’t notice, and he doesn’t notice because he has more important things to think about, such as the fact that he’s dying. He’s never felt so awful in his entire existence. His head is pounding, his stomach is rolling and he’s so thirsty he wonders if his tongue has dried up. Sitting up is hell, and not just because he thinks he’s going to puke: he can feel every bootprint left by his attackers along his torso, and his knee hurts so bad when he tries to stand that he falls back onto the bed. 

When he finally looks around him and sees that he’s alone, he doesn’t just feel like he’s dying but that he _wants_ to die.

He sits for a while feeling utterly sorry for himself before the call of nature is too strong to resist and he somehow manages to limp into the bathroom. He pointedly refuses to look at himself in the mirror as he turns on the shower, and then spends fifteen minutes trying to revive himself under a cold blast of water that only helps a little. Afterwards, wincing, he wraps a towel around his waist with shaking hands and is halfway back to the bed when the hotel room door opens. 

Dean walks in with two cups of coffee in his hands and a scowl on his face. Castiel is so relieved that he almost falls to his knees and sends up a prayer of thanks.

Dean, meanwhile, stands shock-still and stares at him. “You look terrible,” he observes flatly.

Castiel pulls himself together. “Well, that’s strange, because I feel like dancing,” he replies sarcastically. He sits gingerly on the edge of his bed and buries his face in his hands. His hair drips on the floor and he watches the droplets hit the earth-colored tiles moodily, wishing his long-awaited reunion with Dean had gone a little better than this.

A coffee cup is placed on the nightstand beside him and a hand falls on his shoulder. “Lie down, Cas. Let me check you over. Those guys could’ve done some damage.”

“Oh, so _now_ you care,” Castiel mutters bitterly. “In the future I’ll remember that if I want you to give a damn, I’ll have to get half-killed first.” But he leans backwards and edges himself onto the mattress, resting his head on the pillow as Dean sits beside him and runs a gentle hand down his side, checking his ribs.

He studies Dean just as hard as Dean studies him. The sunlight beaming through the blinds throws his face into shadow, shadows which are exacerbated by the baseball cap he’s wearing. For some reason it annoys him because it’s as though Dean’s trying to hide under it, so he reaches up a hand and lifts off the hat. Dean glances up, surprised, and that’s when Castiel sees how exhausted he looks. His face may be suntanned but his coloring does nothing to hide the dark circles under his eyes or the puffiness of his eyelids. He also looks older than when Castiel saw him last, and he doesn’t know if it’s because Dean’s lost weight or because of the stress of what he did. It’s strange seeing him with long hair, too; without the cap to hold it in place, it falls down over his forehead in sweaty strands. 

This is Dean, but it’s someone else, too. A new Dean. Castiel finds him unfamiliar and not a little intimidating.

Dean looks away, seemingly embarrassed, as Castiel stares. The fingers investigating his body vanish and his companion stands up, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “You’ll live,” he remarks, picking up his own coffee and peeling off the lid. “Though I hope you learned a lesson. You can’t throw your money around like that and expect people not to think you’ll be an easy mark, especially when you’re that drunk.”

“I didn’t care,” Castiel says without thinking. Dean raises an eyebrow and it’s an expression so familiar and comforting that Castiel almost feels like weeping, although the pain behind his temples probably has just as much to do with that as anything.

“So you have a death wish on top of everything else,” Dean muses. “How’s that goin’ for you?”

“Have you been in Mexico all this time?” Castiel asks pointedly, frowning.

Dean shrugs. “I’ve been around.” He stares at him for a few moments and then reaches into his bag. He pulls out a bottle of pills and throws them across the bed; Castiel fails to catch them by a mile. “Here. They’ll help with the headache.”

Castiel doesn’t even look at the label before he throws them back. “I don’t want them. I’m off the pills.”

Dean grins, but it’s not a nice smile. “Sure you are. Just like you’re off the booze, too. You’re a paragon of virtue, Cas.”

Castiel laughs at that. It sounds bitter and he only stops when he realizes it’s borderline hysterical. He’s lying there with the mother of all hangovers and Dean thinks he’s exactly the same person he was all those months ago back at the camp. It _is_ funny, in a way.

“How’s Chuck?” Dean asks, his voice softening.

“Went back home. He’s writing again. And he’s engaged to Sara.”

“Sara?”

“Blonde girl from Tallahassee. Carried her clarinet with her everywhere.”

Dean nods, his eyes flaring with recognition. “I remember her. Wow. Good for Chuck.” He frowns and looks at Castiel sideways, pursing his lips. “Hey, didn’t you and Sara hook up a few times?”

Castiel sighs, feeling his stomach flip uncomfortably. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember a lot of stuff. I was a jerk back then, Dean. I’m sorry.”

“Back then? You were pretty jerk-like last night, Cas. If I hadn’t stuck around you’d probably be in a hospital by now.”

“I know.” Castiel can’t look Dean in the eyes as he speaks, so he stares at the ceiling instead. “I thought I’d lost you again, so I kind of fell apart. I really haven’t been drinking. Last night was the first time since the day Lucifer died.”

Dean falls silent at that, and Castiel refuses to meet his gaze. Neither of them speak for a while and then Dean asks tentatively, as though he doesn’t want to know the answer, “Who else survived?” 

Castiel shakes his head. “Just me.” 

He looks at his companion. Dean’s face has paled under its tan and his eyes are narrowed. “Oh,” he says simply, and looks away.

With an effort and a barely concealed groan, Castiel manages to sit up a little, leaning back on his elbows. “We knew, Dean. All of us. We knew it was a suicide mission. There wasn’t a single person there who went in expecting to come out again. And that includes me.”

“Does it matter?” Dean says bitterly, turning his back on him and staring out of the window. “They still died because of me.”

“And you defeated Lucifer because of it. Don’t say the end didn’t justify the means.”

Dean shrugs. He doesn’t say anything for a while, so Castiel awkwardly moves up the bed until he’s leaning on the wall and picks up his coffee. It’s hot and black, exactly how he likes it, and he wonders if Dean remembered or whether it was an accident.

“You shouldn’t have come after me,” Dean says softly. “I don’t want you here.”

“Well, tough,” Castiel says grumpily. “I haven’t spent the best part of half a year searching every nook and cranny between here and South Dakota for you to send me home again.”

Dean turns to face him, the expression on his face curious. “Why, Cas? Why did you do all that? Why the hell would you?”

Castiel looks up at him in surprise. “Because you’re my friend, you idiot.” Does Dean really not get that?

Dean shakes his head. “No, there’s more to it than that.” He frowns. “You said you fell apart because I left you on that beach. You said you thought you’d lost me... Jesus, Cas. I’m not your keeper. You have to stop following me around like a puppy. I’m not your boss, you know. I’m not Zachariah, here to give you instructions and tell you what to do. You can live your own life without me.”

It’s on the tip of Castiel’s tongue to reply, _what if I don’t want to?_ Instead he says, “I thought you might need someone after… after everything. I didn’t like the thought of you alone.”

“I’m a big boy, Cas. I can look after myself, you know.”

“Then why do you look like you haven’t slept for a month?” The words come out before Castiel can stop them, and he bites his tongue. Dean looks stricken. Then he smiles dangerously and shakes his head.

“Remember who saved who from those bastards last night, Cas. If anyone needs looking after here, it’s you. And I’ve had enough of watching out for people. You’re not my little broth–” He stops himself before he finishes the sentence, then flushes and turns back to the window. “We can’t stay here. You’ll have led the demons right to me. We need to leave Mexico if we can.”

“I wasn’t followed, Dean,” Castiel says wearily, running a hand through his wet hair. “Give me some credit.”

“Yes, you were. I know you were.” Dean shoots him a look that says _you’re an idiot and I know everything_ , and Castiel automatically bristles.

“Dean, what the hell makes you think…”

“You crossed the border, didn’t you? All the border guards are possessed. They knew who you were the minute they saw you. They let you in and put a tail on you so you could lead them to me. Thanks for that.”

Castiel stares at him, stunned. He can’t even remember the border guards now – he’d entered Mexico weeks ago. Had demons really been following him for all that time?

“How did you find me?” Dean asks curiously. “And don’t tell me it was coincidence or fate. I don’t believe in either.”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “Yeah, well. Perhaps you should. I think it was a little of both.”

Dean blinks at him for a few moments. Then he smiles, carefree and warm, and for a second he’s the old Dean again. “We met on the beach at Zihuatanejo,” he says softly. “Of all the places, it had to be there. That _is_ kind of like fate or something.”

Castiel doesn’t understand, and the look of confusion on his face makes Dean smile all the more. “You’ve never seen _The Shawshank Redemption_ , have you?” he says, and Castiel feels a spike of irritation. He’s bored with people telling him he needs to see films or television shows and making him feel like an outsider because he hasn’t. But Dean’s eyes are shining, so Castiel simply shakes his head and waits to see where this is going.

Dean sits down on his bed. “It’s a prison movie with these two guys, Andy and Red, who are in jail together for decades and become really good friends,” he says earnestly, and there’s more emotion in his voice than Castiel’s heard so far that morning, which puzzles him. “Andy dreams of the beach at Zihuatanejo and says that’s where he’ll live the rest of his days when he gets out. Then he escapes and Red doesn’t see him for years. When he’s finally released, he goes to Zihuatanejo… and Andy’s waiting for him. They’re reunited. It’s like… it’s like a fairytale or something. A happy-ever-after ending to a really horrible, nasty story. The kind of thing to make grown men cry.” Dean’s face softens. “I saw Zihuatanejo on a map and thought about _Shawshank_ , so that’s why I went there. And the next day I was walking along the shore and there you were. Weirdest damn thing.”

“Was it a love story?” Castiel asks without thinking.

Dean scowls. “With Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman? Good God, no.”

“So you’re saying that we’re like those two men,” Castiel continues, trying to think like Dean. “We were separated and then we met on the same beach. I suppose that is kind of… fateful.”

“I’m Tim Robbins,” Dean says quickly. “Freeman played God in a movie, so you’re pretty close to him.”

“I’m not God,” Castiel points out solemnly. “I’m not anything holy. Not now.”

Dean stares at him. Castiel stares back. Something passes between them, but Castiel has no idea what it is and he’s too tired all of a sudden to analyze it.

“We need to go,” Dean announces abruptly. “You can sleep in the car. Come on, get dressed. We’re out of here, Red.”

~ ~ ~

They get into Dean’s jeep, the same one he took from the camp, and leave Castiel’s battered Dodge behind. After so long driving by himself, it feels peculiar to sit in the passenger seat with someone else beside him. Castiel keeps glancing over at his companion, trying to believe he’s really there, expecting him to vanish in a puff of smoke. Dean doesn’t, of course, but Castiel keeps staring anyway.

“Will you quit that?” Dean says after an hour, glaring at him. “You’re making me paranoid.”

“Sorry,” Castiel mumbles, and rubs his forehead. Sunglasses aren’t helping his headache and neither is the way the jeep is rocking on the battered roads as they head north. This really isn’t how he’d imagined his reunion with Dean at all – he feels like death warmed up, and Dean keeps looking at him like he’s expecting him to puke at any moment. Although that’s probably because Castiel keeps thinking he _is_ going to puke at any moment. 

“You really haven’t drunk anything since August, huh?” Dean says, giving him an appraising look. “Is that why this hangover’s hit you so hard?”

“So it would seem,” Castiel mutters darkly, resting his head on the glass of the passenger door. The jeep hits a pothole and the movement jerks his head back and then cracks it against the glass. Hissing in annoyance, he leans back in his seat. “I’ve never felt this bad before,” he grumbles, not expecting any sympathy. It’s just a statement of fact.

“I’ve seen you way more drunk than you were last night,” Dean muses. “But you never seemed to get hangovers back at the camp.”

“I think I was still part-angel, if only a little. It protected me.” Castiel sighs, thinking back to some of the things he did during that time. “Actually, I’m pretty sure if I’d been fully mortal I’d have overdosed ten times over. There didn’t seem to be a limit to what I could take.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Dean’s voice is hard, but Castiel feels too ill to make anything of it. He closes his eyes and then opens them again a few minutes later when Dean asks, “So you’re full-on human now, then? Your angel mojo’s a no-show?”

“Lucifer was the last angel to walk the Earth,” Castiel says without thinking. “The moment he died, I was human.”

“Great,” Dean says sarcastically, after a few beats. “Glad I could help you with that.”

Castiel shoots him a sharp look. “Dean, I’m not blaming you.”

“Never said you were,” Dean says quickly, shaking his head, but it’s unconvincing. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Castiel asks him irritably. “Why are you being so pissy?”

Dean looks down at his hands on the wheel and then back up at the road. “I’ll get you out of Mexico, Cas, but once we’re in the US again I want you gone. I can’t look out for you all the time. I want to be by myself.”

Castiel tries to ignore the stab of loss his words spark inside him and says the first thing that comes into his head instead. “Why? So you can sulk?” 

The look Dean throws him is pure venom. “I can leave you by the side of the road now if you really want.”

Castiel sits up, ignoring the way it makes his stomach perform an uneasy flip-flop. “I’m not leaving you, Dean,” he says seriously. “You need someone to watch your back and I don’t care what you think about that. There are demons after you. You’re on the run and too many people know your face. I kept getting recognized back home, did you know that? And you’re even more famous than I am! There’s no way you can stay on your guard for the rest of your life. You need backup.”

“I can take care of myself,” Dean grinds out, frowning at the road. “I don’t need a babysitter, Cas. And I’m not babysitting _you_ in return.”

“I can take care of myself too.”

“Yeah, you did a damn fine job of that last night.”

“I was drunk. That’s not going to happen again.” Castiel glares at his companion so hard that Dean is forced to look at him. “I might not have my powers any more, Dean, but I can still fight. I’ve been a soldier for longer than humans have walked the Earth; I just have to learn to fight with a different kind of strength. Once I’ve done that, I can protect myself and I can protect you.”

Dean seems uncertain, but his face softens a little and his eyes flick back to the road ahead. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t look at you and see Jean-Claude Van Damme,” he grunts. 

Castiel smiles bitterly. “I landed a punch on one of those guys last night, didn’t I? And I couldn’t even see straight. It’s instinct.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t exactly float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. It was luck more than judgment. And there was no power behind it – you might as well have just used harsh words.”

“Stop the car, Dean.”

“What? Why? You gonna hurl?”

“Just stop the car.”

They pull up by the side of the road and climb out of the jeep. The moment Castiel’s feet hit the floor he winces as his knee protests, but he ignores it. Dean comes to stand in front of him with a quizzical look on his face that turns into amazement as Castiel balls his fists in the air.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Dean snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Try and hit me.”

“Are you nuts? I lay a finger on you and you’ll puke on my shoes! You’re _green!_ ”

“Dean, try and hit me.”

Dean puts his hands on his hips, studying him. Just when Castiel thinks he’s not going to do anything he suddenly lashes out and hits him on the jaw with enough strength to overbalance him, sending him crashing to his knees, but without it hurting too much. The fact that he lands on his bruised kneecap doesn’t help, though, and Castiel can’t help a groan escaping his lips.

“Sorry,” Dean says, a little ruefully. “But you did ask for it.”

“I hate you,” Castiel growls, his fingers digging into dry red earth as he tries to collect himself. 

“We can try again when you’re feeling better,” Dean offers, and holds a palm out to help him up. Castiel pushes it away petulantly and gets to his feet unaided, but it hurts like hell and he glares at Dean the whole time.

“Wow,” Dean declares cheerfully. “If looks could kill.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Need a hand getting back in the jeep?”

“Screw you.”

“Bet you’re glad you tracked me down, huh? This is going swimmingly.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything as he climbs back into his seat, but he winces when Dean slams the door and grips the dash to brace himself. Dean starts the engine and then waves a bottle of water in his face. “Here you go, Mohammad Ali. Drink this. You’re dehydrated.”

Castiel snatches it out of his hand without a word and gulps down a few mouthfuls as the car starts to move. He doesn’t look at Dean again; he twists so he can stare out of the side window, feeling utterly wretched and foolish and unwanted. After a little while, however, something occurs to him and he reaches stiffly into his pocket and pulls out his cellphone.

“There’s one number in my address book,” he tells his companion, shoving the phone in his hand. “Call it.”

“Who is it?”

“Someone who gives a damn about you. And that someone isn’t me.”

Dean’s forehead furrows. He makes the call and, after a few awkward greetings and a lot of explaining, he proceeds to tell Chuck about how he’d saved Castiel’s ass outside a bar the night before.

Castiel falls asleep with his head resting on the window before Dean’s even finished talking.

~ ~ ~

 

Dean wakes him when they reach a gas station so he can use the washroom. He stands in front of the sink and splashes water on his face; it’s warm and brown and smells faintly of earth. He’s hot and sticky and miserable, but at least his headache is going and his stomach’s not threatening to rebel with every movement. He stares at himself in the cracked mirror and tries to reconcile the sunburnt, weary-looking, bedraggled man in front of him with the angel in the photograph the demons are using to hunt him down. He looks completely different now. Human in every way. Frail and feeble. Broken.

He sighs and walks back into the sunlight. For a brief, panicky moment he can’t see the jeep and thinks Dean’s left without him, but once his eyes have adjusted to the sun’s glare he spots it. He limps over and climbs into his seat, almost sitting on the sandwich Dean’s thoughtfully left out for him. 

“Chicken,” says his friend, staring down at a map on his lap. “Though I gotta warn you, it takes like ass.”

“Thanks,” Castiel mumbles, but he just puts the food on the dash and stares out of the window. 

“We’re heading to La Paz,” Dean tells him, holding up the map so he can see where he’s pointing. “We have to get a ferry across the bay.”

“What’s in La Paz?”

“A boat that’ll take us to San Diego.”

Castiel frowns. “We’re going to sail across the border? What makes you think the US coastguard won’t catch us?”

“ _What_ US coastguard?” Dean shrugs at him, before lowering his eyes to the map again. “They’re still trying to put themselves back together after the tsunami. Carlos says more Mexicans have ridden boats into the States in the last few months than have crossed the border in the last ten years. It’s a free-for-all.”

“Who’s Carlos?”

Dean shrugs again. “Hunter. I put out some feelers when I hit Mexico City and he’s helped a lot since then. He’s, uh, a bit of a fan.”

Castiel tilts his head at him, pursing his lips. “A fan?”

“Yeah. You know, of the books.” He waves a hand dismissively in the air. “But not the movie. He does have some taste.”

“You’re taking advantage of your fame,” Castiel observes, unable to hide a smile. “Well, look at you, gettin’ down with your followers.”

“It’s gotta be good for something, right?” But as Dean puts the map away and starts the engine, Castiel can see that he’s blushing. It makes him laugh, and the look of scorn Dean shoots him makes him laugh all the more.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for liking _Route 666_ , you know,” Dean hisses. “My estimation of you took a serious nosedive when we came out of that theater.”

“How could you not love it? Shia was a glorious you.”

“He was a douche and don’t you dare say any different.”

“You have to admit that Zac Efron was a very appealing Sam.”

“Efron was a dick.”

“Michael Bay did a great job with that truck. I had no idea it was computer-generated.”

“Cas, I’m warning you...”

“You shouldn’t take it all so personally, Dean. I’ve lost count of the number of movies which have cast a Jesus who’s nothing like–”

“Please, Cas! Just shut up!”

Castiel closes his mouth, grinning. He watches as they pull out onto the road again and then picks up the sandwich, fiddling at the wrapping before giving up. He hasn’t eaten in two days, true, but it seems he’s not quite ready for food yet.

“I’ll have it if you don’t want it,” Dean tells him.

“Thought you said it tasted like ass?”

“Yeah, well. I’m still hungry and I’ve eaten worse.”

Castiel thinks about it and hands it over. “I don’t have any money,” he reveals, remembering how he’d probably maxed-out his card in the bar. “How about you?”

“I got enough.” Dean huffs out a laugh. “Turns out I can hustle pool in Spanish just as well as I can hustle pool in English.”

“I need to learn how to do that.”

Dean shoots him an amused look. “You’d suck. But I can see you playing poker – you’d be good at that. Sadly, though, there’s not much call for poker hustling in bars.”

Castiel falls silent, gazing out of the window at the scenery. Mexico is all scrubland and cacti as far as he can see. There are barely any vehicles on the road with them and the jeep is leaving a cloud of dust in their wake that he’s sure he can taste in the back of his throat.

“Why did you come here?” he asks.

Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Why not?” he replies. “Anywhere’s better than where I was.”

~ ~ ~

 

By the time it gets dark they’re too far from a town to find a motel, so they build a fire just off the highway and make beds on the dirt either side of it. Dean seems nervous for some reason Castiel can’t determine; he’s jumpy and irritable, snapping whenever he’s spoken to. After a while Castiel keeps his mouth shut, anxious not to provoke him. He’s still half-convinced he’ll wake up tomorrow and find himself alone in the desert; this Dean doesn’t seem to want company. He’s trying not to dwell on the fact because he knows if Dean leaves him again it’ll be enough to break him for good this time.

“I hate sleeping outside,” Dean grumbles, as they both lie staring up at the stars. “I suppose I should be used to it by now, but it’s always so freakin’ _uncomfortable._ ”

Castiel is so tired he thinks he’d be happy sleeping on a pile of trash right now, but he doesn’t say anything. After a long silence spent listening to insects chirping and the fire crackling away between them, he hears Dean moving around and a voice asks plaintively, “Are you awake?”

“Not by choice,” Castiel mutters, deciding that if Dean’s going to be a miserable pain in the ass that night, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be, too.

There’s another silence, this time so lengthy that Castiel starts to doze off. He’s fairly certain he’s asleep when he hears Dean murmur, “It’s good to see you again, Cas.” 

Because it’s just a dream, he doesn’t bother answering him.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Carlos turns out to be a fisherman in his forties who looks far, far older, probably because he seems to have spent every second of his life in the sun and it’s made his skin wrinkle like old leather. His eyes are bright blue and his teeth are whiter than any teeth Castiel has ever seen. He’s striking, to say the least, and the longer Castiel looks at him the more he likes him.

The feeling appears to be mutual. “ _Hola, ángel,_ ” Carlos says nervously, holding out his hand for Castiel to shake. At the last minute he changes his mind and crosses himself instead, lowering his eyes to the ground as though he doesn’t think he’s worthy enough to meet his gaze. 

Dean tries to hide the irritated expression on his face while Castiel sighs. “ _No mas, me temo,_ ” he says, and pats Carlos on the arm. The hunter looks a little embarrassed, then grips Castiel’s hand and squeezes it powerfully. 

“God sent you to help us,” he announces, his accent thick and pleasant. “That is all that matters.”

Castiel doesn’t know how to reply to such religious conviction, something he’s not used to any more, but Dean saves him. “Yeah, yeah, enough with the ego-stroking, dude. So you’re taking us to La Paz – but what about afterwards? Are you coming to San Diego?”

Carlos nods. “I have friends there who will look after you, but I don’t want to let you out of my sight before you reach them. You are too special to us.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to look uncomfortable. Castiel shoots him a teasing grin. “Oh yes, he’s _very_ special,” he tells their companion meaningfully. 

“You killed El Diablo,” Carlos says, shaking his head in disbelief. “It is my duty to protect you now.”

Dean looks like he wants to throw up and Castiel can tell he’s thinking about the fact he helped let the Devil out of Hell in the first place. Nobody seems to know what he’d done, barring the old guy Castiel had met in a diner so many months beforehand. Nothing Castiel has read online or heard people discussing in the street seems to mention Dean breaking the first seal. Everybody knows that Sam said yes to Lucifer, though, and Castiel wonders how long it will be before the thought of Sam getting all the blame while he gets all the glory will drive Dean nuts.

“When can we leave?” Dean asks, his voice a little strangled.

“In the morning. You will stay with me tonight, Dean and Castiel. It is my honor.” He pronounces Castiel’s name wrong, as ‘Cas-teel’, and it makes him smile.

“We’re the ones who are honored,” he tells their host, and when Carlos smiles at him his teeth shine like someone’s just turned on a light.

~ ~ ~

They take a ferry to La Paz the next day, and Castiel discovers something about himself he’d never suspected until now: he’s afraid of water. He can barely believe it himself as he stands on the boat and looks over the edge, but his heart is pounding, his palms are sweaty and he’s finding it hard to breathe. All he can think about is what would happen if he fell into the sea. Every instinct tells him it would be the death of him, and it takes him a long time to figure out why. 

“You seasick?” Dean asks him suddenly, clapping him on the back as he appears from nowhere. Castiel almost jumps out of his skin.

“No,” he growls, and sits down on the deck. Dean looks over the side of the boat, sniffs and turns to look down at him.

“So? Why do you look like you want to die?”

“I was an angel,” Castiel tells him imperiously, trying to hide the hitch in his voice. “I had wings.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “…And?”

“Wings and water don’t mix. If I’d fallen in the sea, the weight of them would have dragged me down. I think… I think my subconscious remembers that, and it’s making me… nervous.”

Dean grins. “You’re scared of the water? That’s kinda pathetic, man.”

Castiel huffs. “At least I’m not scared of flying, unlike someone else I could mention.”

Dean’s face falls instantly. “The last two planes I flew on came _this close_ to crashing. Can you blame a guy for being a little bit paranoid?”

The ferry rolls as a wave hits it and Castiel has to close his eyes. 

“We’re not going to sink, you know,” Dean promises, reading the look on his face. “I can’t speak for the boat we’ll be taking to San Diego, but this one looks pretty solid.”

“Your faith is very comforting,” Castiel replies darkly.

Dean is quiet for so long that Castiel thinks he’s gone away, but when he opens his eyes again he sees him leaning over the side of the boat and trailing his hand in the water. Spray scatters rainbows around him and when he looks back over his shoulder to see if Castiel is watching, he actually looks happy. It lasts all of ten seconds and then the old Dean is back. His eyes squint against the sun and he straightens, wiping his hand on his jeans.

“Carlos has brought some food,” he says. “It’ll take your mind off drowning. Come on.”

Oddly enough he’s right, but probably not in the way he was expecting. Castiel spends the rest of the trip laughing as Dean discovers that he gets violently and desperately seasick after consuming anything more than three beers.

~ ~ ~

 

With the exception of Lawrence, La Paz is possibly the most normal place Castiel’s visited since before Lucifer arrived on Earth. It’s a fishing town with a sideline in tourism that’s obviously dwindled since the apocalypse began, but the locals seem to be thriving regardless and the atmosphere in the town is merry. It’s lucky the place is so welcoming, too, because it takes four days to arrange the boat to take them back into America. During those four days Carlos looks after them and Castiel has a chance to relax and study Dean without having to worry about anything else at all.

Until he starts worrying about Dean, that is. 

Dean’s been hiding it well – he’s a master of deception, as Castiel well knows – but there’s something _off_ about him. He’s a little more cheerful than he used to be, probably because he’s not having to worry about feeding a camp full of innocent people or strategizing or thinking up ways to kill Lucifer. But the cheerfulness is all on the surface: there’s something going on behind his eyes when he smiles that Castiel doesn’t like one bit. He knows it’s got everything to do with Sam, but exactly what it is escapes him. 

It’s pretty clear that Dean’s not sleeping, either. He’d insisted on separate rooms at the boarding house Carlos had lined up for them even though the double room they’d been given was beautiful and spacious. The more Castiel thinks about it, the more it occurs to him that Dean has gone to great lengths to avoid sleeping with him in the same room ever since they’d met up again. The night they’d spent under the stars was followed by a day in which Dean was exhausted, and Castiel finds himself wondering if he’d deliberately stayed awake for some reason. It’s almost as though he hadn’t wanted to sleep with anybody else around him. It’s almost as though he’s too scared to sleep when someone’s there. 

He watches Dean eat breakfast on their last morning in La Paz and wonders how bad the nightmares must be. 

“I’m gonna miss this place,” Dean announces, staring across the street at the brightly-colored market. “There’s so much life here.”

Castiel tears a piece of bread in half and sighs. “I don’t think America is doing half as well as Mexico.”

“Did you hear Texas is back in the Union? They needed the aid too much. They gave in.”

Castiel thinks back to the people he saw living on the streets in San Antonio. “Good. Pride can’t feed a population.”

Dean scratches at his beard. “I wish we didn’t have to go back.”

Castiel feels himself blushing. It’s his fault Dean’s having to leave Mexico. Although they’ve seen no sign of the demons that have apparently been following him since the border, Dean’s convinced they’re there. They need to get back into America and lose themselves; it’s their only chance of getting any peace. 

Dean throws a strawberry at him to get his attention and Castiel flinches. “Where are you gonna go once we get there?” he asks.

Castiel shrugs. “Wherever you go.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “I wasn’t joking when I said we need to split up, Cas.”

“I guess I’m hoping you’ll get used to having me around by then.”

“Stubborn son of a bitch.”

“I learnt from the best.” He flashes Dean a grin which isn’t returned. It’s strange how they’ve settled into a routine now, one in which they’re both rude to each other, insults flying in every direction while they both push against the other’s limits. It’s annoying but it’s also comfortable. It’s not quite what they had but it’s near enough to make him feel less lost.

“You’re really different now, Cas,” Dean tells him thoughtfully, after they’ve both stared out at the market for a while. “I can’t figure you out.”

“Well, I’m sober. That probably helps.”

“Yeah, it does. And you’re not that stiff-necked tightass you were as an angel. You’re somewhere in between now. You’ve got a personality and it’s all your own, not one that was beaten into you while you were a soldier or one that came out of a bottle.”

Castiel looks up at the sky. “I’m hoping you’re going somewhere complimentary with this, Dean.”

Dean chuckles. “I think I’ll just stop there and let you wonder.”

“Jerk,” Castiel says without a second thought, but when he senses Dean tensing up out of the corner of his eye, he remembers that was one of the insults he used to share with Sam. He shoots him an apologetic glance. “Sorry.”

Dean shakes his head. “N-nothing to worry about.” He licks his lips. “I’m gonna get more c-coffee.”

Castiel watches him walk off, thinking about the way he’d stumbled over his words and wondering just how long it would be before Dean crashed and burned. Nobody could go without sleep forever. Nobody could harbor whatever guilt and stress Dean was harboring without it taking them down eventually. Dean already looks like he’s running on empty. He looks like he’s been running on empty for _months_. 

Castiel is going to make damn sure he’ll be there to catch him when he can’t carry on any more.

~ ~ ~

 

The trip to San Diego takes three days. It probably shouldn’t have taken half as much time, but they’re anxious to stay out of sight of other ships as much as they can, just in case, and their boat hugs the shoreline for a few miles before heading into open sea whenever things get too crowded. Carlos and the crew he’s assembled to sail the _Sidewinder_ aren’t taking any chances; they’re seasoned hunters, all of them, and they know what they’re doing when it comes to avoiding attention.

As Castiel keeps his head down and tries not to think about all the sea around them and how he can’t swim, he’s only comforted by one fact: it’s saltwater. Demons can’t swim in it, either.

~ ~ ~

By the morning of the third day, Dean’s a wreck. It’s plain to see that he hasn’t even attempted to sleep since he stepped on the boat: he’s up all day and all night, rest be damned. Castiel’s really starting to worry for him. How bad _are_ his dreams if he’d rather half-kill himself through tiredness than close his eyes?

It’s a matter of pride more than anything, of course. Dean doesn’t want anybody to know he’s having nightmares, so on a cramped boat with its limited space and privacy he refuses to fall asleep in case he shows weakness. Castiel could strangle him, but he doesn’t say a word. Dean needs to do his thing and he needs to respect that, no matter how self-destructive it is.

He leaves his tiny cabin and finds his friend sitting at the prow of the _Sidewinder_ in the morning sun. He wanders over to him, knuckling sleep out of his eyes and combing his hair with his fingers, trying to make himself look a little presentable despite their surroundings. Even after three days he’s still freaked out by the way the crew look at him, as though he’s something holy and mighty they need to be afraid of while they sing his praises. The first night, Carlos had asked him to read a prayer to his friends and he’d politely refused, knowing that to do so would make him a hypocrite. Since then they’d left him alone, but the _looks_ continued. Castiel only wishes he could live up to what they saw in him.

“Hey, Cas – check this out!” Dean calls as he hears him approach. He points down to the water and, unwillingly, Castiel braces a hand on the rail before he looks over the edge. It’s worth it, though: a pod of dolphins are streaking through the water along with the bow wave, effortlessly gliding through the sea as though they have nothing better to do than keep pace with a boat full of silly humans. Dean laughs beside him and Castiel finds that he’s laughing, too, his fear of the water temporarily forgotten. There’s so much joy in the dolphins’ movements that it’s contagious.

“That’s really somethin’, huh?” Dean says, slapping Castiel on the arm. “I never thought I’d ever see that.”

“They look happy,” Castiel observes.

“They’re fish. What the hell have they got to worry about? Of course they’re happy!”

“They’re not fish, Dean. They’re mammals.”

Dean snorts. “Whoa, Cas. You sound like Sam.”

Castiel tears his eyes away from the dolphins and glances at him, but Dean’s face seems calm. He’s wearing his baseball cap but the shade it throws is nowhere near enough to hide how tired he looks; his eyes are red and puffy from weariness.

“You need sleep,” he says firmly, in a tone of voice that used to get him everything he wanted back when he was an angel. 

Instead, Dean just laughs at him. “I can sleep when I’m dead,” he returns, and leans so far over the side of the rail that Castiel automatically grabs the back of his t-shirt in case he falls. “If I was asleep, I’d be missing this.”

“We’ll reach San Diego this afternoon. Promise me you’ll sleep then.”

Dean shrugs off his hand and glares at him. “Give it a rest, would you? Jeez.”

“I’m worried about you, Dean.”

“Well, just stop.” Dean scowls, looking more than a little dangerous. “See, this is why I don’t want you to come with me – you’re annoying. I don’t need you telling me what to do. I don’t need anyone telling me what to do.”

Castiel sighs and looks down at the dolphins. “Okay, okay. I get it. You’re invincible. My bad. You just carry on not sleeping and you’ll be totally fine. What do I know? I’ve only been human for three years.”

“Damn straight,” Dean grunts, and then splutters as he gets a mouthful of spray. Despite his annoyance, Castiel can’t help but laugh at his shocked expression.

~ ~ ~

When they arrive in San Diego, Dean takes two steps onto the pier and passes out so hard he scares Castiel half to death.

~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

_3\. San Diego ~ Arizona_

 

 

The next time Dean opens his eyes, Castiel has had long enough to recover from the fright to roll out some teasing. 

“So how’s the whole ‘not sleeping’ thing going for you, then?” he asks his friend cheerfully. “Working out, is it?”

Dean looks around him with wide eyes. His gaze settles on Castiel and he says, “Huh?”

“You passed out the minute you stepped off the boat,” Castiel informs him, gentling his voice a little. 

Dean clears his throat and rubs his eyes. “Oh. Right. I guess I needed to find my land legs.”

“I guess you needed to find your _brain_. You don’t sleep, you pass out. It’s not hard to comprehend.”

“Could you sound any more smug if you tried?” Dean lifts his head off the pillow, feels the soft mattress below him and stares around the opulent room. “Where the hell am I?”

Castiel grins. “Welcome to America. You’re going to love this.”

Dean raises his eyebrows hopefully. “Is this a brothel? Dude, did you bring me to a _brothel_?”

“You’re in a beach house. It’s just been rebuilt after the tsunami. It’s worth about five million bucks.”

Dean whistles. “How did you swing that?”

“Carlos introduced us to his American friends, and it turns out you have a famous fan.” He waits until Dean looks like he’s going to pop before announcing: “This place belongs to Robert Downey Junior.”

There’s a very long, very disbelieving silence while Dean’s face rotates through several different expressions. “Are you seriously telling me we’re in Robert Downey Junior’s beach house right now?” he says eventually, sounding utterly incredulous.

Castiel nods. “I think he feels an attachment to you. He did play your father, after all.”

“That movie is going to haunt me forever,” Dean grumbles, but he looks oddly pleased as he sits upright and studies the room. “Wow. Even the wallpaper in here looks like it costs more than most people earn in a year.” He scratches his head and yawns. “How long was I out?”

“A few hours. You still need some rest, but you should eat something first. Come on, wait till you see the view…”

The beach house really is something; even Castiel has to admit it. He waits as Dean follows him into the main room and studies his face as he takes in their surroundings. The house is built on stilts above the beach and an entire glass wall slides sideways so that it’s open to the sand and sea; the waves roll and crash about fifty feet away. The beach is small and private – something Castiel actually finds a little offensive, dividing up the coast like that, but he’s not going to complain about it right now because it’s _safe_ – and the view across the ocean is glorious. It helps that the sun’s setting and the sky is flaming red. Despite knowing the coloration is caused by soot and smoke from the fires that have ravaged the coast of California for the last year, Castiel can’t help but think it’s beautiful. It’s the first time he’s actually appreciated a sunset for longer than he can remember.

“Fuck,” says Dean, sounding awed.

“You astound me with your eloquence.”

Dean stares daggers at him. “Is it my imagination or are you even more annoying on US soil?”

Castiel laughs and pulls out a chair so that Dean can sit at the exquisitely expensive glass table. Looking a little bewildered, Dean sits. Castiel indicates the piles of food spread across the glass. “Help yourself,” he orders him, pouring himself some coffee.

Dean stares at the food for a while – there’s everything from chicken wings to caviar; no expense has been spared by their host – before he frowns at Castiel. “So Carlos knows Downey?”

“Apparently so.”

“I think this is going to take some time to sink in.”

“Take as long as you need. We can stay here for as much time as we want.”

Dean stares out at the sunset and shudders. “No. This place isn’t… it’s not real, you know? It’s like a dream. There are people starving out there with nowhere to sleep at night. Why should we get to have all this when they don’t?”

Castiel knows exactly how he feels, but he doesn’t want to leave just yet. “Let’s stay for a few days,” he suggests. “I need to rest up just as much as you do. Let’s catch up on our sleep, relax and forget everything for a while. There are people guarding this beach. We’re safe.”

Dean looks down at his plate and sighs. “I feel like I got hit by a djinn again and I’m dreaming all this. In a minute I’m going to wake up and find I’m hanging from my wrists in a warehouse.”

Castiel doesn’t really understand what he’s referencing, but he nods anyway. “Eat something. Then get some sleep. You’ve got a big day of doing nothing to look forward to tomorrow.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

There are two bedrooms in the beach house, both of them luxurious beyond belief with the most comfortable beds Castiel has ever had the fortune to sample. Dean seems happy to stay in the room nearest the sea while Castiel takes the one backing onto the cliffs; it’s quieter in there, but the walls of this multi-million dollar building are surprisingly thin. He can hear the surf outside even though they closed the sliding wall, and after a while the gentle susurration of Dean’s snores drift through the partition between them, making Castiel smile as he falls asleep.

He wakes up to the sound of him screaming. 

By the time he runs into his room Dean’s awake and has backed himself into the corner by the window, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking with sobs. He’s awake but he’s also not quite aware of where he is – when Castiel places hands on his shoulders and says his name, Dean just moans “Sammy…” and refuses to be placated. It’s not until Castiel tries to draw him into a hug that Dean seems to come to himself and pulls away, shoving him to one side with a growl. 

“Get off me!” he barks, panting. “I don’t need you here!”

“Dean, I’m just–” Castiel begins, but Dean pushes past him and stalks into the next room. Castiel waits a few moments and tries to steady his breathing before he follows. Dean has opened the sliding wall and is standing in the moonlight, looking down the beach with his back to the room. The sound of the sea is suddenly loud in the night air.

“Does that happen every night?” Castiel asks him, unable to stop himself. 

Dean’s shoulders are tense under his t-shirt; he flinches when Castiel speaks. “Yes,” he says, his voice deep and raw. 

“Dammit, Dean. You should have told me.”

Dean glances round at him, his face blue-pale in the light of the moon. “And then what? Were you gonna hold me while I go to sleep? Whisper sweet nothings? Or feed me some of those sleeping pills you used to love so much?”

“How the hell should I know?” Castiel says, raising his arms in defeat. “But you shouldn’t suffer alone. I’m your friend, Dean. You shouldn’t keep things from me.”

Dean snorts angrily. “Oh yeah, we’re best buddies all right. Want to read my diary and see what else you don’t know? Shall I read yours? I can just imagine what you’d write. _Dear Diary, today I watched Dean being an ass and didn’t drink anything at all. Go me!_ ”

Castiel bites back the insult on the tip of his tongue and looks away. Dean turns back to the beach and they both stand there for a few minutes, nothing but the swell and surge of the sea disturbing the air.

“I d-dream about killing him,” Dean says softly, so quietly that Castiel has to take a step closer to hear him. “It’s the same every night. Over and over and over. Only he… he’s not Lucifer. He’s Sam. I k-kill Sam every single night.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says gently. There’s not much else he can say.

Dean shakes his head. “He’s d-dead and I’m here.” He gestures at the beach, the sea, the sky; everything. “That’s fucked up, isn’t it?”

“He made his choice,” Castiel reminds him, hating the fact he has to say it.

Dean sniffs. “Yeah, didn’t he just. And I still don’t know why. I’ll never know why. I think that’s why I’m d-dreaming about him.”

He’s stammering. The night isn’t cold and he’s not shivering; he’s actually stuttering over his words, as though merely speaking them aloud is too hard for him. Castiel wants to walk over there and wrap his arms around him, to tell him that everything’s going to be okay and that the pain will get better one day, but he already knows Dean won’t let him. And anyway, before Castiel can even move Dean jumps down the wooden steps and onto the sand, straightening and looking up at the sky. Then he strolls down the beach for as far as Castiel can see in the dark. 

He doesn’t come back and it doesn’t look as though he wants to be followed, so after an hour Castiel goes back to bed. 

He doesn’t fall asleep until dawn, and the sound of the sea is anything but relaxing.

~ ~ ~

 

It’s one in the afternoon when he wakes up to find Dean leaning on the doorframe with his hands in his shorts pockets and a highly amused look on his face.

“What is it?” Castiel mumbles sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

“You missed Robert Downey Junior,” Dean informs him smugly. “He stopped by with Carlos to say hello.”

Castiel nods without really caring. He’s only seen the actor in one movie anyway; it’s not as though he’d have been starstruck. “Did you hit it off?” he asks, already knowing the answer simply from the look on Dean’s face.

Dean grins. “He’s probably the coolest dude I’ve ever met. Seriously, unbelievably cool. I think I have a man-crush.”

Castiel swings his legs over the side of bed. “I hope you’ll have a long and happy life together.” He blinks across at his friend, who’s still grinning like an idiot. “Wait a minute. He played your _father_ and you have a crush on him. That’s kind of creepy.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Ew. Don’t even think that.” He folds his arms. “You wanna know the next film he’s making? _Devil’s Trap_. Apparently the government thinks people need cheering up after the apocalypse and funding for films has been put aside. It’s, like, some kind of morale thing. And the next Winchester movie is the first one they’re making.”

He sounds thrilled to bits and Castiel can’t help but smile. “I thought you hated those films?” he goads Dean gently.

“Yeah, but he says it’s gonna _rock!_ They’re even thinking of not killing him off. They reckon he’s bringing in the older viewers, all the ones who think Shia and Zac are too young. I mean, come on, Cas – he wasn’t in _Route 666_ all that much but what he did do was brilliant.”

“I seem to remember you telling me after we saw it that if your dad had really been like that, you’d have run away from home at six.”

Dean shrugs. “It was a bad script. But he says the next one is great – they’ve even been talking to Chuck about it. He kept that quiet, huh? Sneaky little S.O.B.”

Castiel is finding it difficult to get his head around Dean’s sudden enthusiasm for the Hollywood version of his life story, but he’s not going to knock it. A few hours ago Dean had been screaming the house down. He can’t believe this is the same guy, but then again, that’s Dean all over: a man of contrasts.

“They’re already working on the script for the one after _Devil’s Trap_ ,” Dean continues, following Castiel as he walks into the main room and squints in the sunlight. “That one’s gonna have _you_ in it.”

Castiel shakes his head. “And who’s going to play me?”

Dean’s face falls and for the first time he actually looks serious. “They want Morgan Freeman. They say he has ‘gravitas’.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Gravitas is good. Though I don’t really know who he is, other than he was in that prison movie you were telling me about.”

Dean sighs and sits down at the table. “It probably doesn’t matter anyway, Cas. Nobody can find him. They think he’s dead. They’ve got private investigators hunting him down in Mississippi, but most of their attention’s focused on finding Brad and Angelina in LA these days, so I don’t think he’ll turn up.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything. He pours some orange juice and stares out of the house at the sea, wondering if he should mention what happened the night before. Dean seems fine now, but he knows it’ll only be temporary.

“He has a tattoo on his chest,” Dean announces dreamily.

“Morgan Freeman?”

“No, idiot. Downey. He has an anti-possession ward right here.” He pokes himself on the sternum, then smiles so wide it looks as though his face is going to split in half. “It’s exactly where his mechanical heart was in _Iron Man_. So fucking cool. I could have kissed it.”

“Okay, Dean, now you’re scaring me.”

Dean falls silent for a while, watching as Castiel eats. The silence is companionable but Castiel can feel tension building, as though Dean knows he needs to address what happened but doesn’t want to. 

“Cas, there’s something really important I have to do today,” Dean says eventually, when they haven’t spoken for so long it’s starting to make Castiel’s skin prickle.

Castiel looks across at him sharply. “What?”

Dean grins. “Teach you to swim.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

The sea is cold and Dean has no patience, but he tries his best to be a good teacher and after an hour Castiel can swim. 

After two hours, he can swim better than Dean can. 

After two and a half hours, Dean stalks back into the beach house to sulk.

Castiel likes swimming. He likes feeling weightless; it reminds him of flying, and the sharp tang of the seawater against his lips and tongue is refreshing. He stays in the water until he feels his skin starting to burn from the sun and then, reluctantly, decides he’s had enough. He keeps forgetting how fragile human flesh can be; how simply being naked to the sky can end up hurting. He’d been sunburned in Mexico and he hadn’t enjoyed it, so no way is he allowing it to happen again. 

Dean had surprised him on the boat to San Diego when he’d taken off his t-shirt to reveal the pale flesh beneath it. His lower arms, legs and face were so brown Castiel had assumed he’d tanned all over, but he hadn’t. When he’d asked about it, Dean had frowned and pointed at his shoulder.

“Your damn handprint,” he’d said bitterly. “I have to keep a shirt on all the time in case someone sees it.”

Dean had even kept his t-shirt on today. Castiel looks down at his chest, at how he’s already starting to tan, and adds _handprint_ to the mental list of things Dean has got to be pissed at him about. It goes right next to _I can swim faster than he can_ , but Castiel’s quite pleased about that one.

As he walks back up the sand he studies the blackened line of trees on the hills behind the beach house. San Diego burned last year and most of California joined it. As if that wasn’t enough, very few houses along the coastline escaped the tsunami that followed the volcanoes erupting in the Pacific; the entire shoreline was wiped clean in some places. 

Dean had been right yesterday when he’d said that this place wasn’t real. It _was_ like a dream, and it was a dream he didn’t think he should be having when everybody else was in the grip of a nightmare.

“We should leave tomorrow,” he tells Dean as he walks back into the house.

“Yeah, we should,” Dean agrees, before throwing a towel at him. “You’re dripping on Iron Man’s carpet, dude.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

They sit and watch the moonrise with their feet dangling over the edge of the house and the soft glow of candles at their backs. It’s beautiful, truly beautiful, but Castiel can’t enjoy it any more. If anything, it makes him a little sick.

“I wish I could live like this without feeling guilty,” Dean observes softly, as though he’s been reading his companion’s thoughts. He takes a sip of beer and puts the bottle down beside him. Castiel’s eyes follow it unconsciously before his fingers tighten on the mug of coffee in his hand and he looks away.

“This is paradise,” he says, wishing Dean really knew the meaning of the word. “As near as we’ll find on Earth, anyway.”

Dean sniffs and rubs his beard. “I’ll take your word for it, seeing as you’ve probably seen Heaven ‘n’ all. You know a few things about paradise.”

Castiel nods, a humorless grin spreading on his lips. “You could say that. But in some ways this is better. At least I can appreciate it here. At least I can feel.”

“Sometimes you can feel too much,” Dean says softly, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

It’s the only opening he’s going to give him, so Castiel takes it. “The dreams will go away,” he says with certainty. “Just give it time.”

Dean’s expression hardens in an instant. “I don’t want to talk about it, Cas.”

“It’s kind of hard for me to ignore the fact you woke up screaming blue murder last night, Dean. Or that you look like you’ve been avoiding sleep for months, or that you’re clearly not getting over–”

“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ did you take to mean ‘let’s talk about our feelings and be emo all night’, Cas? Come on, dude, let me alone. It’s our last night in paradise. Don’t ruin it.”

Castiel looks down at the sand, frustrated. “I’ve never met anyone so pig-headed and stubborn as you, Dean. You’re impossible.”

“You obviously didn’t spend much time with Bobby, then.” Dean laughs, but it’s deep and nervous, like he’s hiding grief. He picks up the beer again and takes a swig. 

They fall into silence for a while, the only sound the soft lap of the water on the shore. When Dean curses, it’s so sudden it makes Castiel jump. 

“What is it?” he asks, startled.

“My watch isn’t working. Dammit. I thought it was supposed to be waterproof, but I guess not.”

“If you take the back off and let it air, it might be okay.”

He watches, amused, as Dean removes his watch and spends the next five minutes trying to peel the plate off the back with fingernails that are clearly too short for the task. He gets more and more annoyed until Castiel takes pity on him; he puts his coffee down and slides over until he’s sitting a few inches from Dean’s side. “Here, let me.”

Dean slaps the watch into his palm and sighs. “Stupid thing. I think it’s stuck. I’ll just have to get a new one.”

Castiel has it open in three seconds flat. He holds the watch up to the moonlight, examining the interior, before removing the battery and placing them both on the carpet beside him to dry out. 

“There,” he says. “Give it some time and it’ll be fine.”

When he turns to look at Dean, his friend is staring at him strangely. Castiel sees something in his eyes he presumes is fear and realizes that Dean probably doesn’t want to go to sleep tonight. He’s scared. He must be scared every night, since the dreams began. 

“Give it some time and _you’ll_ be fine,” he tells him softly.

A low sound leaves the back of Dean’s throat. It’s almost a whimper; something sad and desperate and nothing like any sound he’s heard Dean make before. Castiel opens his mouth to ask him what’s wrong… 

…but the words disappear as Dean leans forward and presses their lips together.

Castiel has lived a very, very long time. He’s seen countless wonders and fought in countless battles, but nothing in his entire existence prepares him for the feel of Dean Winchester’s mouth on his. It’s so unexpected, so unforeseen, that he simply stops breathing; every hair on his arms stands upright and he freezes in place. Dean’s lips are soft and taste of beer and his breath is warm and welcoming. Castiel doesn’t close his eyes but Dean does and he finds himself staring at his eyelashes, every hair lit up by the moonlight in exquisite detail. His mind is just trying to figure out whether he should close his eyelids as well when it’s all over.

Dean leans back. His eyes are wide now.

Castiel breathes again, feeling his heart hammering in his ribcage. Everything just changed. The whole world just flipped inside-out and back again because Dean kissed him. He has absolutely no idea what to make of the fact.

“Shit,” says Dean.

Castiel can’t speak. He can’t do anything except stare.

“I can’t believe I just… Oh my god. I’m sorry. I have no idea where that came from.”

Castiel manages a nod.

Dean’s expression goes from apologetic to flat-out _panic_. “Fuck. Fuck. I’m sorry. Holy crap, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was going to do that… I don’t even know _why_ I did that. You just looked…” He catches his breath in his teeth and then he’s on his feet, backing away from Castiel and into the house. “I’m sorry, man. I’m really, really sorry. It’s the beer, it must be. I’m not used to it. I’m drunk. I’ve been drinking Mexican beer – our beer must be stronger. That’s it. That has to be it.”

Castiel turns to face him, but he still can’t speak. Dean’s bathed in candlelight and his eyes look dark, like he’s possessed. For a moment Castiel thinks that would be a very good explanation for what just happened.

Dean stares at him for a few moments, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and then he’s gone. The bedroom door slams shut so hard that half the candles in the main room blow out from the force of it.

Castiel sits in the dark and places a hand on his stomach, which feels as though it’s turning cartwheels under his flesh. His hands are shaking. He’s so overwhelmed it doesn’t occur to him to go after Dean; he’s still processing. 

Dean _kissed_ him. 

He’s known him for nearly seven years and never once, not _ever_ , has Castiel ever looked at Dean and wondered what it would be like to kiss him. They’re friends, that’s all; Castiel had never thought they could be anything else. Dean likes girls, _he_ likes girls: there was no gray area there, none at all. Dean shouldn’t ever have looked at him and wanted to touch him. It just wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t have happened, and yet it had.

Castiel stares down at the watch lying benignly on the carpet and tries to imagine what this will mean. Even if Dean never does it again, it will always be between them. The thought that Dean could have found him so appealing… that he’d just sat there and let it happen… that he’d actually enjoyed it, as brief as it was…

His eyes fall on the bottle of beer Dean left behind him. Suddenly all he wants to do is pick it up and lift it to his lips and make everything blurry, just as it had been for those years spent hunting Lucifer. Life had been so much simpler then. Uncomplicated. He’d eaten, slept, drank, fucked and fought. That had been it; nothing else. So very, very simple.

Dean had been simpler then, too. He’d had a mission, a goal to aim for, and he hadn’t let anything distract him. Now he had nothing: he was rudderless, adrift, and apparently that resulted in him doing things he’d never have dreamed of doing before. The longer Castiel thinks about it, the more certain he becomes that Dean won’t be able to handle facing him again – that he won’t be able to look at Castiel without being embarrassed and devastated, humiliated that he’d let his carefully constructed guard down. Dean hated being vulnerable, and how could a person get any more vulnerable than when they were kissing someone?

With that thought in mind, Castiel pulls on some clothes, packs up all his things and gets comfortable on the couch. And when Dean creeps out of his room three hours later, fully dressed and with his own bags slung over his shoulder, Castiel simply raises an eyebrow at him and says, “Going somewhere without me?”

“I guess not,” Dean says gruffly. 

He turns and walks back into his room.

~ ~ ~

They drive east the next day and the silence in the car is deafening.

Carlos and his friends have been good to them; they’re sent on their way with wallets full of cash and a solid, reliable SUV that isn’t new enough to make them a target for thieves or old enough to be totally crappy. Dean waves farewell and climbs behind the wheel with a last, lingering look at the beach house. Castiel follows him in an instant, determined not to let him out of his sight. He’s utterly convinced that Dean will dump him the second he gets the chance and that’s not going to happen, especially after last night. Dean needs him too much. 

Castiel hadn’t known just how much until the kiss.

Being Dean, of course, he won’t discuss it. They drive along Highway 8 without saying a word to each other and every time Castiel moves Dean flinches a little. He looks exhausted and Castiel doesn’t feel much better after his wakeful night, but that’s the least of their worries.

“Dean,” he says, as they enter Cleveland National Forest. “Would you just–”

“No,” Dean grunts, and that’s all Castiel gets out of him for hours.

He’s the old Dean again, the one from before he killed Lucifer. His eyes narrow as he drives and he looks determined for some reason Castiel can’t identify. He drives aggressively and swears when another driver cuts him off, which thankfully doesn’t happen often. There aren’t that many cars on the road. America, it seems, is back on its feet, but it’s limping; there are the blackened remains of forest fires everywhere and people are camped out on the streets whenever they pass through a town. Castiel can’t help but think it’s odd that Mexico is doing so well when the country that considers itself superior to its poor cousin is doing so badly. It’s like a twisted form of justice, as though the United States have been knocked down a peg or two for being arrogant. Of course, that doesn’t explain why so many other, innocent countries across the globe have been ravaged in ways that make America seem lucky. There was no rhyme or reason to Lucifer’s attacks: he just did whatever he felt like at the time. He was arrogant and carefree and powerful, the worst combination he could be.

They drive all day and can’t find a motel to stay in that night, so they camp out in some desolate wasteland that doesn’t even have a name on their map. It’s hot and dry as the sun sets but the night air is chilly, so neither of them get much sleep as they try to adjust after so many weeks spent in warmer climes. Not that Castiel wants to sleep anyway, as he’s too busy wondering if Dean’s going to sneak off and leave him behind while he’s unconscious. 

He’s starting to feel paranoid and resentful and Dean keeps looking at him as though he knows. They still don’t talk, not even when the sun comes up the next morning. 

It’s one of the longest nights Castiel has ever known.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It can’t go on forever, and they finally crack as they drive through Arizona. The air-conditioning in the SUV packs up just after midday and Dean keeps hitting the vents on the dashboard until Castiel snaps at him to stop. Dean glowers at him so powerfully it’s almost comedic and turns back to the road, his jaw pressed shut so tightly that Castiel fancies he can hear his teeth grinding together. The fury radiating off him is far too full-on for it to be just the car causing it, and after two nights with barely a wink of sleep Castiel suddenly feels too angry himself to tiptoe around it any more.

“Why did you kiss me?” he demands.

Dean audibly gasps. The sound turns into a growl a moment later and he barks out, “Dammit, Cas! Can’t you just let it go? What are you, a woman?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answers irritably. “What are you, gay?” It’s a low blow and he knows it, but he’s too annoyed to care. 

Dean slams a hand on the wheel and glares at him. “Fuck you.”

“Would you like to? I honestly have no idea, seeing as you won’t talk to me.”

“What the hell do you want me to say? I was drunk!”

Castiel hisses. “No, you weren’t, Dean, and don’t you dare insult my intelligence by pretending you were! You had two beers. _Two_. You were stone-cold sober when you kissed me and I want to know why.”

When Dean turns to look at him, his lips are twisted into a snarl. “Why? What difference does it make to you why I did it?”

“Because I have no idea how to react!” Castiel snaps, realizing that it’s the truth. “One minute we’re friends and then you do that and what the hell am I supposed to think? I don’t know if you want me or if you were messing with me or if you were just being crazy!”

“I am not having this conversation,” Dean snorts, turning away. 

His voice is dismissive and it makes Castiel even more furious; when he speaks it’s all he can do to keep from shouting. “I don’t care about your petty embarrassment and your anally retentive efforts to get out of talking about your feelings, Dean. I’m sick of you hiding from everything that’s important! You can’t just bury your head in the sand and hope it goes away when you’ve done something you’re not proud of! You have to… what are you doing?”

Dean’s pulling up on the side of the road. He brakes, turns to Castiel and says flatly, “Get out.”

Castiel frowns at him. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Dean rolls his eyes at the ceiling, opens the door and climbs out. He walks around the front of the car, yanks open the passenger door, grabs Castiel by his arm and tugs as hard as he can. With a startled yelp, Castiel finds himself on his knees on the cracked tarmac. By the time he gets to his feet Dean has removed both his bags from the back seat and thrown them into the scrub at the side of the road. 

“I told you we were splitting up when we got here, Cas,” Dean tells him roughly, his eyes flashing with quiet rage. “You already had three days more than you should have. You can find someone else to stalk now, okay?”

“Fine!” Castiel yells, kicking the passenger door shut and backing away until he’s standing in the middle of the deserted road. “Why the hell would I want to spend any more time with you, anyway? You’re a nervous breakdown just waiting to happen! I’d have more fun hanging around with Lucifer!”

The moment the words leave his lips he regrets them, but Dean just shakes his head in disgust and gets back in the car. He leaves in a cloud of dust and Castiel can only stand and watch as the SUV moves further and further away until it’s a tiny dot on the horizon. 

It only then that he looks around him. The road stretches on forever, a ribbon of black that becomes a mess of heat haze and shimmer in the distance. There’s absolutely nothing as far as his eyes can see, only a thin line of mountains on his left and a vast, gray plain on his right. There isn’t another car in sight. Thinking about it, he hasn’t seen another car on this road all day. The sun is high in the sky and it’s baking hot. There’s no way he can make it to the nearest town with the small amount of water he’s got in his bag. He’ll fry first.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and falls to his knees on the road.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He stops shaking after half an hour as the adrenaline slowly leaves his system, and what it leaves him with is regret. He can’t believe he’d said those things. He can’t believe he managed to push Dean away from him while he was actually trying to bring him closer. He can’t believe he’d lost his temper in such a stupid, childish way and he can’t believe Dean’s gone.

Dean’s gone.

As the realization starts to sink in, Castiel goes cold. It’s as though the sun isn’t even shining in the sky; his skin rises into goosebumps and he shivers. He’s lost him. After all this time, after all that searching, after those days spent basking in Dean’s company in Mexico and that wonderful afternoon learning how to swim outside a film star’s beach house in San Diego, he’s managed to fuck it all up and Dean wants nothing more to do with him. And yet Dean _kissed him_ : he’d clearly felt something, some tenderness, some tiny hint of affection, and Castiel had just thrown it all back in his face.

It occurs to him, right then and there as he sits by the side of the road in the middle of a desert he doesn’t even know the name of, that what he feels for Dean Winchester has never been simply friendship. _He loves him._ He’s loved him for years without having the faintest clue. He’d loved him since the moment he’d first seen him beaten, bloodied and deadly in Hell. He’d defied his superiors because he’d loved Dean; he’d been punished because he’d loved Dean; he’d disobeyed them again and _died_ because he’d loved Dean. He’d followed him into humanity and he’d followed him to certain death and he’d followed him to Mexico and the whole time, that whole, entire, impossible length of time, he’d thought what he was feeling was friendship because he hadn’t known any different. He’d never been in love before. How could he have known what it felt like?

But none of it matters now, because Dean’s gone.

It’s all he can do not to just sit down and weep, but he’s too tired and miserable for even that. He looks around for some shade but there’s nothing, not even a cactus, and he considers walking back the way they came but he knows it’s hopeless. He might as well just sit here, wait for another car and hope it won’t take a week to show up. It’s not like he has anything better to do, is it?

The day lengthens and he starts to suffer in the heat. He spends an hour watching a lizard basking on the broken hardtop of the road before it crawls away and leaves him alone again. The sun beats down on the top of his head and he knows he should cover up or risk getting heatstroke, whatever that feels like, but he can’t seem to summon up the energy to care. He just sits. 

Maybe he’ll die out here, all because of Dean. That would be pretty appropriate, actually, considering how Dean already killed him once. He clearly hasn’t done anything with his second chance at life to make his resurrection worthwhile. He deserves this. 

“God, I want a drink,” he croaks as the sun starts to set, but nobody’s around to hear him.

As the sky turns a rich, deep red and he starts to feel the first chill of the evening settle around him, something catches his eye. _Lights_. There’s a car heading his way, coming from the road ahead; he can’t see it clearly but he hears it drawing closer and is struck with the sudden, panicky feeling that it’ll miss him in the gloom. He jumps stiffly to his feet, stands in the middle of the road and watches with his heart in his mouth as the vehicle approaches. 

It seems to take forever to reach him, and when it does he sees that it’s an SUV. He frowns, trying to make out more of it, before realizing with a shock that it’s _Dean_. 

He came back. What the hell?

The car rolls to a halt a few feet away and the engine idles as Castiel blinks in the light from the beams. There’s a brief pause before Dean steps out. He bends to pick up Castiel’s bags, throwing them into the backseat one by one. Then he stands by the door and tilts his head to indicate that Castiel needs to get in.

“Come on,” he says gruffly.

Castiel has absolutely no idea what he’s doing back there. He does know one thing, however: Dean abandoned him in the middle of a desert for the best part of a day. Without another thought he strides forward and punches him on the jaw so hard he’s half-convinced he’s broken his knuckles; too late, he remembers that he has to worry about things like that now. But the pain’s worth it because the impact sends Dean spinning to the floor, and it’s unbelievably satisfying to watch.

“You son of a _bitch_ ,” Castiel growls. “I can’t believe you did that!”

“Came back, didn’t I?” Dean gasps, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “I could’ve left you here to fry.”

“Oh, how very generous of you! Am I supposed to feel grateful?”

Dean pushes himself up onto his knees and wipes his mouth. “I’m sorry, okay?”

Castiel takes a step back on mock surprise. “Whoa, am I hearing things? Did the mighty Dean Winchester actually just apologize to someone? Are you sick? Are you delirious? Is _that_ why you kissed me?”

“I did it because I wanted to,” Dean shouts suddenly. “That’s it, okay? That’s why I did it! Are you happy now?”

Castiel barks out a bitter laugh. “No, I’m not! What the hell am I supposed to make of that? You wanted to kiss me _then_ , but what about now? What about next week? Next month? Next year?”

“All of them!” Dean yells, banging his fist on the side of the SUV. 

Castiel stops dead. Dean stares up at him pleadingly before lowering his eyes.

“I want to do it again,” he moans, sounding scarily close to tears. 

A chill runs down Castiel’s spine. “Okay,” he breathes, his voice wavering a little. 

Dean shakes his head. “I c-can’t do it, Cas. I can’t let myself. It’s not fair to you and it’s not going to work.”

Castiel pauses for a few moments, feeling his heart fluttering madly in his chest. Then he kneels in front of his companion and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

Dean blinks at him in surprise, reading Castiel’s message loud and clear: _if you try again, I’ll kiss you back._ But once the knowledge has sunk in, he moans and pulls away. “We won’t work, C-Cas. I can’t risk it.”

He’s stammering again and suddenly Castiel is scared for him. He looks like he’s going to come apart at any second. He’s shaking and his eyes are filled with tears; he seems frail and fragile, nothing like the Dean who’d thrown him out of the car that afternoon. “Risk what?” he asks him softly, trying to catch his eyes with his to calm him down. It doesn’t work.

“I c-can’t go through it again,” Dean explains, his voice hitching as he tries to control it. “I’ve lost everybody. I lost Mom and Dad and Bobby. I lost all the people I grew up with, Pastor Jim and C-Caleb, everybody. Ellen and Jo d-died while I watched. This used to be hers.” He lifts his hand to the cross around his throat, holding it so tightly the leather cord must be digging into the back of his neck. “I even had a brother I d-didn’t know about, but he was d-dead before I even met him, can you believe that? And look at what I d-did to Sammy, C-Cas. Look at what I d-did to him. All those people loved me, or would have loved me if I’d given them the chance, and I lost them all.” 

He reaches out and grabs a fistful of Castiel’s shirt. “I c-can’t lose you too. I can’t do it.”

Castiel sighs and places his hand over Dean’s. “You won’t lose me, Dean.”

“I will. I lose everybody. Or they leave me.” A sob escapes his throat and Castiel can tell it’s the start of something huge. “He chose the D-Devil over me, C-Cas. My own fucking brother and he chose the D-Devil and I don’t even know why. What d-did I do to him to make him hate me so much?”

“He didn’t hate you, Dean. Lucifer tricked him.”

“Sammy was smart. He wouldn’t have let himself be tricked. He had to give himself willingly and he d-did. Why d-did he d-do that?”

His words are catching in his throat and Castiel winces, feeling for him, knowing that this has been building for a long time. Perhaps he hadn’t been that far off earlier when he’d said Dean was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps Dean was finally going to shatter and Castiel would have to put him back together.

“It’s alright,” he says, and strokes his face. “It’s going to be alright, okay?”

“What is it about me?” Dean sobs. “Why d-d-does everybody leave me?”

“I won’t leave you. I’ve never left you, Dean, you know that.”

“You w-will.”

“Dean, I _died_ for you, and I was going to die for you all over again the last time you saw me. What else can I do to prove how much you mean to me?”

“He k-killed two billion people,” Dean groans, and there’s so much pain in his voice that Castiel almost breaks when he hears it. “Two billion people d-dead because Sam d-didn’t love me enough. What c-could I have d-done d-d-different? Tell me where I went wrong, C-Cas.”

“You know it wasn’t you, Dean.”

“It’s always me. It’s _always_ me. I s-started it and S-Sam f-finished it. He must have hated me so fucking much, C-Cas. So f-fucking much…”

After that, Dean is too distraught to speak. Castiel wraps his arms around him and holds him as tight as he can, the body in his grip shaking so hard it doesn’t seem possible for him to still be in one piece. Dean digs his fingers into his back so desperately that Castiel has to bite his lip to keep from crying out, but he doesn’t move. All he knows is that he saw this coming; he’d known Dean was going to break at some point, and he’s relieved it happened now, when he’s here. He’s always going to be here for Dean. Always. 

Dean’s right: everybody leaves him. But not any more.

~ ~ ~

 

It’s the one time when they really need a motel and there are none to be found. Arizona is no different to the rest of America: chaotic, battered and struggling to get back on its feet. Despite the fact that much of its infrastructure has been revived and there’s a semblance of normality, it’s still facing a whole array of bigger problems. One of the biggest is that people are homeless, their homes destroyed by tornadoes, earthquakes, fires and even floods. By necessity, hotels are now permanent residences for entire families. This means that after driving for hours through the first two towns he finds and failing to uncover anything resembling an empty room, Castiel gives up completely and heads into the desert again. 

He’s ruefully considering another night under the stars when he spots a house off in the distance, the shape of it silhouetted against the moonlit sky. He has no idea if anyone’s there but by now he doesn’t care: it’s three am and Dean needs sleep. _He_ needs sleep. They’re both grimy and cold and utterly exhausted. The paradise of the beach house seems a long time ago now, even though it’s only been two days – they’ve done nothing but drive and argue ever since and haven’t known a moment’s peace. They need a refuge and he hopes against hope that he’s just found it.

They pull up in the deserted driveway and Castiel glances over at Dean. “I’m just gonna go check this place out, okay?” he declares, and it’s the first time he’s spoken to him since they were out on the side of the road and his companion was shaking in his arms. 

Dean’s head is resting on the window. He makes a motion that could be a nod or could be simply a shiver; Castiel can’t tell. 

Suppressing a sigh, he climbs out of the car and grabs a flashlight from his bag, shaking it when it doesn’t come on with his first try. Then he walks up the wooden steps and onto the porch, holding the flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. He takes a deep, steadying breath before moving through the open door into the darkness beyond.

It’s a normal family home. Or at least, it was. Now the jolly, flowery wallpaper is hidden by blood spatter. Furniture is mangled and shredded. The windows are smashed and the yellow carpet is darkened with dried blood. There are no bodies but it’s clear more than one person died here – there’s too much gore for this to have been anything less than a family massacre. The toys littering the carpet in the far corner of the room make Castiel shudder. 

He stares around him hopelessly, trying to judge whether spending the night in a place like this will be a good idea, before stepping cautiously into the ruined study, followed by the kitchen. On a whim, he turns on a faucet and is stunned when water flows out. Okay, that changes everything. If this place has running water it’s looking better already. He leaves it running to flush out the pipes – who knows when anyone used them last – and creeps upstairs, gun at the ready.

To his surprise, the two bedrooms and bathroom on the next level are completely untouched. They look as though the family who lived here have just stepped out for a moment: the windows are whole, there are clocks ticking away on dressers and the beds are made, neat and tidy. Not daring to believe his luck, Castiel searches every room, looking for danger and finding none. He tests the shower in the bathroom and it works. When the water starts pouring out warm, he realizes the house must have electricity, too, and he flicks on the light. 

“Thank you,” he breathes aloud to nobody in particular, thrilled. This is better than he could have hoped for. Why this house is empty he has no idea, unless the carnage downstairs has scared away potential tenants, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He goes to fetch Dean.

~ ~ ~

 

Dean is quite clearly in shock. He lets himself be guided upstairs without looking around once, then sits meekly on the edge of the double bed when Castiel pushes him down onto the mattress. He doesn’t move a muscle as his companion bends to take off his shoes, watching him with a blank expression as each foot is freed and his socks removed. Castiel eases off his shirt next, followed by his belt, and spends a few moments wondering how to get his jeans off him before deciding he’d probably want to keep them on. The whole time Dean just sits there and trembles slightly, his eyes far away and frighteningly blank.

“You need to get some sleep,” Castiel tells him gently, and tries to push him back on the mattress. 

Dean resists. “I can’t sleep,” he mumbles, pushing the hand away. 

“Yes, you can. Just close your eyes and relax.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Dean almost growls, and he hides his eyes behind his palm.

Castiel sits on the bed beside him. “I promise I won’t let you dream. I’ll watch over you.”

Dean laughs, but it’s a horrible, bitter sound. “My mom used to say that angels watched over me while I slept. I guess this isn’t really what she had in mind.”

“I’m serious, Dean. Lie down.”

Dean drops his hand from his eyes and turns to him. The lamp on the nightstand has a pink shade and the light it throws on Dean’s face makes his skin look ruddy and healthy; Castiel knows it’s just an illusion. Dean’s face is actually pale and streaked with tears. His beard, which still looks strange to Castiel’s eyes after so many years of seeing Dean clean-shaven, is coated in dust. His eyes are bloodshot and his nose is red. He looks wrecked.

“What _was_ that, Cas?” Dean asks uncertainly, his voice a little hoarse. “What happened out there?”

“What do you think happened?” Castiel squeezes his arm gently. “You’re not invincible, you know, even though you try to convince everybody you are. After a while even you have to break.”

Dean’s face is a wall of confusion. “I couldn’t even speak. I was stammering. It was like I just… lost it. I’ve never done that before, man. I’ve cried and I’ve been upset, but that was just–” His voice trails off. He shakes his head and looks away. “Sorry.”

“Are you seriously apologizing to me? For what? Being human? Having emotions?”

Dean’s head bows and he stares at the floor. “I thought I was handling it, Cas. When Sam… when he said yes, he was dead to me back then. I mourned him.”

Castiel nods, remembering, although that had been around the time he’d started drinking and taking whatever substances he could lay his hands on and his memories were a little foggy. He remembered Dean being silent and pale, then horrifically angry, but he couldn’t remember any tears. His version of ‘mourning’ was clearly different to the rest of the world’s.

Dean inhales a gulp of air and his voice becomes strained. “I knew he was dead, I really did. But when I saw him again, it was like none of it was real, you know? As though I could just talk him round and make him see sense, and Lucifer would leave him and everything would be alright again. I couldn’t believe he was really gone.”

“It must have been confusing,” Castiel says softly, because Dean pauses and the silence is too harsh to leave uninterrupted.

“For a little while,” Dean agrees, and as Castiel watches his face suddenly smoothes out until it looks empty. Vacant. His eyes darken and his voice is low when he adds, “And then I shot him right between the eyes and he really _was_ dead.”

Castiel can’t think of anything to say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut. He waits for a minute or two before standing up and rooting through one of his bags for the tub of salt he carries everywhere. He pours lines in front of the door, windows and across the bathroom floor – demons could enter a house through drains just as easily as any other way – and puts the lid back on with a _click_. Not much salt left. He’ll have to see if there’s any in the kitchen, but that can wait until tomorrow. He’s down two nights’ sleep, whereas Dean… Dean’s down six months’ worth. They need to get to sleep right now, if only so this miserable day is finally over.

Castiel kicks off his shoes, removes his jeans and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulls off his t-shirt. He’s not exactly clean after his day spent sweating in the sun, but then again, neither is his companion, and neither of them care. Showers can wait. He glances up as he removes his socks to see Dean staring at him with a worried expression on his face.

“What?”

Dean swallows nervously. “What’s with the striptease? Are you getting ready to seduce me or something?”

Castiel huffs out an amused breath, pleased that’s he’s capable of joking. “Trust me, Dean, if I was seducing you, you’d know about it.” He shoots him a weary grin. “Lie down. You’re not sleeping on your own tonight, but don’t worry. I’ll keep my hands to myself. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

Dean frowns a little. “You’re about as far from a perfect gentleman as I’ve ever seen, Cas. I’ve walked in on you doing stuff that’s anything but…” His voice trails off. Castiel has no idea whether it’s because he thinks he’s made his point or just didn’t have the energy to finish the thought, but he doesn’t care either way.

“Lie down,” he tells him again, coming to stand by the bed. “I mean it.”

With a frustrated sigh, Dean throws his hands up in resignation and eases himself onto the bed; Castiel has to dart in and pull the covers out from underneath him as he moves. Dean flattens down with his head on the pillow and blinks up at him. The light from the lamp is brighter there and now Castiel really can see how terrible he looks. 

He turns off the lamp.

“Are you sure you can’t sleep in another room?” Dean asks with what sounds like forced petulance.

“Stop complaining and shut up.” Castiel lifts the covers and slides into the bed, which is cold and smells a little musty, but better than many of the beds he’s slept in over the last few years. It takes him a moment to arrange the blankets so they’re evenly spread across the both of them and he can almost feel the waves of nervousness radiating off his companion as he moves. It amazes him that Dean can fight the kind of monsters that would terrify most people and yet be frightened of something as simple as intimacy; sharing a bed is as scary for him as fighting a vampire would be to an ordinary person.

“Are you cold?” he asks him, sensing his shivering. 

“A bit,” Dean admits quietly, sounding a little embarrassed.

“Okay, you have to promise me you won’t freak out.”

“Why? What are you… Oh.”

Castiel eases an arm around Dean’s shoulders, sliding it against the cool cotton sheets until he has enough leverage to roll him sideways and into a hug. It’s awkward and probably way too close for either of them right now, but Dean is trembling and he’s vulnerable and, _dammit_ , Castiel isn’t going to let him just lie there alone. He positions himself so that he’s lying flush against Dean’s naked chest, their faces only inches apart on separate pillows, and it’s all he can do to stop himself tangling his legs around Dean’s under the covers. Now he’s got him this close it’s hard not to just give in and cling to him. Instead he simply rests his hand on his waist, places the other on the back of his neck and tries to ignore how Dean’s body has tensed.

“I’m warm,” he explains in a firm voice. “So whatever you’re about to say, don’t bother.”

Dean stays very still for what feels like a long time. His shivering gets worse, not better, and Castiel can’t make out his face in the darkness but he has a feeling there’s a look of panic on it that would probably make him laugh if only he could see it. 

“This is weird,” Dean murmurs eventually.

“No, it’s not.”

“You’re _hugging_ me, Cas. What isn’t weird about that?”

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who kissed me.”

Dean falls silent. Castiel fights the urge to stroke his hands up and down his torso and keeps as still as he can, but the shivering continues.

“What are you scared of?” he asks after a while, because Dean’s heart is beating crazy-fast and he can feel how rapid his breaths are as air flutters against his cheek. 

Dean shudders. “This,” he says.

“Me?”

“Yes. This. Us. I don’t know if I can handle this.”

Castiel smiles, though Dean can’t see him in the gloom. “I’m not asking you to ‘handle’ anything, Dean. All I’m doing is keeping you warm.”

Dean shivers again and it’s enough to make Castiel sigh in exasperation. “Will you just _relax_ already?”

“Newsflash for you, dummy: you nagging me to relax is not going to make me relax.”

“Then pretend I’m someone else. Pretend I’m some hot chick you picked up in Mexico.”

A hand skims down Castiel’s chest, making him jump. “You’re too flat,” Dean remarks shakily.

“I should hope so too, or I’d be very worried.”

There’s a long, uncertain pause. Castiel listens to Dean’s breathing and wonders what he’s thinking. He’d been able to read his thoughts once. He’d been able to walk in his dreams and leave messages in his subconscious. Now Dean’s mind is closed to him, and he misses it almost as much as he’s pleased Dean has his privacy again. He hadn’t realized at the time quite how rude it was to glimpse someone’s innermost desires.

“What is this, Cas?” Dean asks suddenly, his voice sounding so tired and strained that Castiel’s heart melts with sympathy. “What’s goin’ on here? Are we a couple?”

Castiel sighs. “We’re whatever you want, Dean. Friends, lovers – it’s up to you. I don’t care, as long as you’re happy.”

Dean makes a strangled noise. “Cas... Look, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I don’t give a damn about you, but I spent a lifetime watching over someone and I can’t do it again. I need to be by myself now. This is too much for me.”

Castiel doesn’t speak. He tries to ignore his own feelings and put himself in Dean’s shoes but it’s hard, so hard to understand how anyone could turn away from this. Dean has nobody. Why would he want to be alone again? Why would he want to give this up?

“I’m sorry.” Dean’s voice is small and pained. “You spent all that time looking for me and I’m such an ungrateful bastard, but I can’t do this. I can’t give myself to anybody again. It hurts too much when they leave.”

“I’m not going to–”

“Cas, please. Don’t say anything. Just let me do this, okay? I can’t change how I feel. I’m a coward, I know it. I’m too scared to see where this goes. I need to be _me_ for a while longer.”

Castiel considers his words, trying to fight the panic rising up inside him at the thought of Dean just walking away and leaving him alone again. He wants to tell him that yes, he is a coward, and that he should trust him and know that everything will turn out alright in the end, but he can’t, of course. He doesn’t know it will. There’s no way of telling.

“Get some sleep,” he says simply, after a struggle. “See how you feel in the morning.”

Dean tries to pull away. “You can’t stay with me, Cas. I don’t know how I’ll react if I’m dreaming and I can sense someone here with me. I could attack you. My d-dreams are pretty real.”

Castiel tightens his hand on Dean’s waist and holds him still. “I’m not going anywhere.” _Not like you._

Dean sighs and relaxes, just a little. “Pain in the ass.”

“Idiot.”

Everything falls silent. After a long, long time Dean whispers gently, “Thanks, Cas.” It’s all Castiel can do not to kiss him, but he doesn’t.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He wakes up just before dawn to the sound of Dean moaning desperately beside him. He’s shaking and his hands are clenched, every muscle in his body stiff and taut as he faces something in his nightmare that Castiel knows he’s faced in real life, too. His lips are moving and there’s just enough light in the room now for Castiel to see that he’s mouthing the word “No” over and over again, shaking his head defiantly in his dreams.

He considers shaking him awake, but something stops him. Instead, unable to believe he’s doing it, he moves closer, wrapping himself around him as firmly as he can, stroking his back and whispering soothing words in his ear. He holds him like a lover, far too intimately for it to be anything else, but he can’t hold back. Dean is suffering and Castiel can help. It’s as simple as that. 

His companion doesn’t react for a minute or two, gasping for breath as he wades through his nightmare. Then he groans and trembling hands pull Castiel even closer. Dean shifts against him and gasps awake, his eyes barely an inch from Castiel’s and impossible to read in the dimness.

“You’re okay,” Castiel whispers softly. “Go back to sleep.”

Dean stays shock-still before he moves forward and presses his lips to Castiel’s so gently it isn’t really a kiss. It’s more of a caress, a confirmation of something Castiel doesn’t really understand. Then Dean sighs and closes his eyes again, his body relaxing into slumber so quickly Castiel can’t quite believe it.

He holds him until the sun comes up, then succumbs to sleep himself.

When he wakes up, Dean is gone. 

The cross he’d worn around his neck is sitting on the dresser with a note Castiel picks up with shaking hands. _You need this more than I do,_ it says. _Go find God again, Cas. I can’t replace him for you. I’m sorry._

 

~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

_4\. Kansas City_

 

** Six Months Later **

 

She’s standing by the door again.

Castiel stops at the end of the block when he sees her. He shifts the bags in his arms and turns away, wondering how the hell to get into the building without being cornered. It’s not that he’s afraid of her – she’s tiny, so tiny he keeps wondering if she really is eighteen or if she’s a liar – but he can’t face this today. He really can’t. 

Then again, he can’t face it most days. Why should today be any different?

Taking a deep breath, he stands taller and strides towards home with his eyes set firmly on the horizon. Maybe if he ignores her enough times, she’ll get the hint. Maybe if he walks by her without even a look, without acknowledging her existence, she’ll give up and go away. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe not.

“Castiel!” she calls, and runs down the sidewalk to meet him. _Damn._

“Hey, Nicola,” he says with what she simply _has_ to recognize as fake enthusiasm. 

She doesn’t. “I’m so glad you’re here! I waited for an hour for you and I’m supposed to be in church right now.”

He looks across at her flushed cheeks, scarlet against her copper-red hair, and sighs. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Billy said you’d be back soon. I didn’t mind waiting, not really.” He carries on walking and she starts walking backwards in front of him, somehow managing not to trip on the uneven ground as he she talks. Whatever she puts in her Cheerios in the morning makes her impossibly lively; it’s enough to make Castiel feel ill. “Did you think about what I said the other day, Cas? You said you needed some time.”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that, Nicola.”

“What, ‘Cas’? What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s not my name.”

“It’s what _he_ calls you.”

Castiel sighs. “He has permission. You don’t.”

She isn’t fazed in the slightest by the coldness in his voice. “So, did you think about it?”

“No.”

For a moment, she looks downhearted. “Oh. That’s... okay. I’m sure you will. You just need to think about it, Cas... Castiel. You must know in your heart that it’s the right thing to do.”

Castiel frowns at her as he stops before his building. “I don’t really care about the right thing,” he tells her sternly. “I appreciate you trying, I do, but I’m not the guy in the stories. I’m not an angel any more. I’m just some schmuck trying to make it through every day. I don’t need your hero-worship.”

Nicola frowns. It makes her look adorable. It’s hard to take her seriously, no matter how wide her brown eyes go in her freckled face, or how much she talks about God and the church and honor and duty. She’s just some girl who thinks she knows everything, who wants to save everyone, and she has no idea how out of her depth she really is.

“I don’t hero worship you,” she declares. “I know you’re not perfect.” She nods at the trackmarks up his forearms and wrinkles her nose. “Far from it. But you’re still a part of everything that happened, and it’s my job to show you how grateful we are.”

“Send me some flowers,” Castiel says flatly, suddenly tired of all of this. “Can I go now, or do you want to convert me some more?”

“God still loves you, you know,” Nicola calls after him as he walks up the steps. “He hasn’t forgotten you, even if you’ve forgotten Him.”

“God can kiss my ass,” Castiel mumbles under his breath as he opens the door. 

The elevator is so beyond repair it’s laughable and he has to walk the six floors to his apartment. He’s not in the best of shape any more, so when he reaches his room he pants against the wall for a while, wiping sweat from his forehead, before pulling a beer out of one of the bags in his arms. He sets the rest on the couch – the cooler doesn’t work, so it’s not as though there’s anywhere else to put them – and opens the bottle. He wanders over to the window, staring down into Forest Avenue and shielding his eyes against the sun.

Nicola is standing across the street, gazing up at him with her hands on her hips.

“Screw you,” Castiel mutters, raising his beer to her. He empties the bottle in a minute flat and goes off to find Billy.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It amazes Castiel that he’d never tried heroin back in the day. Out of all the drugs he’d sampled, and there had been a few, this enticing, glorious liquid had never once set his veins on fire. There probably hadn’t been much of it around during the apocalypse, which would explain it, but now there was. Straight in from Mexico, the good stuff, fresh and clean and surely the most divine thing Castiel had felt since he’d been divine himself. He couldn’t get enough of that needle and Billy was the one who ensured it was always full.

There were advantages to being a celebrity.

Billy was doing pretty damn well these days. Post-apocalypse, hordes of ordinary people found they were having flashbacks to things they’d done while under the influence of the Croatoan virus. Others remembered being prisoners in their own bodies while demons had ridden them hard at Lucifer’s heels. They were traumatized, distraught, unable to adjust to life again after seeing such terrible things. And so they took drugs to forget, to make them feel good, to kill themselves slowly. Billy had been right there at the start of it, and he was still there now. 

Somehow, Castiel had found him on the first day he’d arrived in Kansas City. Billy had known who he was in an instant and had been massively impressed to have an ex-angel sampling his goods. Within weeks they’d struck up a peculiar, symbiotic friendship: Castiel got all the drugs he wanted for free – he had no money these days, nor a way of earning any – while Billy got bragging rights. Everybody in the neighborhood knew about Castiel. Business boomed. Castiel got hassled by Bible-thumpers and worshippers every time he stepped outside, but he put up with it. He had a place to live and all the junk he wanted. So what if people knew he was here? It had been months and no demons had shown up. Castiel figured he wouldn’t care if they did. All he cared about was his next hit, and how drunk he could get in the ever-smaller spaces in between. Everything else could just go to Hell.

“That chick hassling you again?”

Castiel grins as he walks into Billy’s apartment, stepping through the clouds of incense and shaking his head. “Doesn’t she always?”

“She needs a restraining order, man. Determined little bitch. Won’t give up.”

Billy should have been at college. He should have been studying literature or playing football or learning about politics. Instead he’s sitting in a tatty green bathrobe counting wads of dollars no man his age should ever have access to. If Castiel had anything resembling morals left, he’d probably hate him. Instead he simply asks, “Did it arrive?”

Billy smiles and nods, pushing blond hair out of his eyes. “Oh, yeah. The cops didn’t have a clue, as always. Straight off the train and into the warehouse.”

Castiel sniffs, then wipes his nose with the back of his hand. The incense in this room is always too strong for him, even with his limited human sense of smell. “That’s great, Billy,” he says seriously. “You can stop worrying now.”

“Hmph. Someone has to worry. If I don’t, who will?” Billy blinks and lifts his head. “Hey, do you hear that?”

Castiel shakes his head, not sure what he’s referring to. His companion staggers to his feet, takes him by the arm and leads him over to the window. “I’m sure I can hear... oh yeah. Look at that, my man. Look at that.”

There’s a plane tracing a white vapor trail across the deep blue sky. It’s a big one, a 737 or somesuch, and it’s not until Castiel turns to see the expression on Billy’s face that he realizes it _means_ something. 

Planes are flying again. Airports are open. The world is getting as near to normal as it can ever get.

“I hear jet fuel prices have gone through the roof,” Billy muses, squinting into the sunlight. “You gotta be seriously moolah’ed up to take a ride on one of them babies. Even richer than me.” He sighs. “The great and the good get to fly while us poor mortals stay here on the ground.”

Castiel imagines the sound of wingbeats in his ears; remembers how the wind used to curl through his feathers. 

“I want to try the new batch,” he declares. “Get me a needle, Billy.”

~ ~ ~

 

He loses entire weeks. 

It’s like before, only different. This time there’s no overriding mission he has to try to pay attention to; this time there’s no sense that everything around him is coming to an end. This time there’s no Dean. There’s no anybody except for Billy and his friends, all of whom Castiel can’t stand when he’s sober but loves when he’s high. And there are women, too, lots of them, every one panting to fuck an angel just so they can say they’ve done it, and he doesn’t care who they are or asks their names: he just does them in return, unless he’s too wasted to manage it. 

He knows his behavior is wrong. He knows this is exactly what sickened him before. He knows he’s risking his life every time he presses down the plunger and fills up his vein, or drinks so much he falls unconscious, or takes pills by the handful without even checking to see what they are, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Dean Winchester did this to him. Sometimes he hates Dean so much it terrifies him, but then he’ll remember how much he loves him and that’s even worse. When he’s stoned he’ll find himself lying with a woman and he’ll relish the feel of her around him, breathe in her scent, taste the lipstick on her lips and lower his mouth to her breasts and he can’t imagine, not for the life of him, why he’d ever want to give this up for a man – let alone a man like Dean. But then she’ll say something or move a certain way or laugh or smile or gasp and Castiel will think _I wish you were Dean_ and he knows he’ll never, ever get over him. 

He had two loves in his life: Dean and God. Both of them went away. Castiel knows there’s no replacing either of them and so the needle is the next best thing. At least when he’s high he doesn’t have to be himself any more. He hates himself. He hates everything about his life, but he hates Castiel most of all.

 

~ ~ ~

Nicola won’t leave him alone.

“Please tell me you’ve thought about it, Castiel,” she chides him, as he tries to evade her on the street and fails. “Daddy means it, he really does. You’ll have a place in the church for the rest of your life if you want it. You don’t have to live like this, you know. You’re better than this... this... den of iniquity.”

Castiel laughs at that. “Oh really? That’s what you think this place is?”

Nicola’s cheeks flush and she nods vigorously. “It’s not just the drugs and the liquor – I’ve seen the women going in and out. Fallen women! Women of loose morals! You live among the debauched and the depraved.”

Castiel quirks a grin at her. “I _am_ the debauched and depraved, sweetheart. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

She shakes her head. “No, you’re not. You were an angel, Castiel, and nothing can tarnish your aura. You are incorruptible and pure of heart and mind.”

There’s something about her blind faith in him that makes Castiel angry, but he contains it. She’s so young. So righteous. She hasn’t been through what he’s been through – she hasn’t lived for thousands of years and seen death in so many forms she’s become immune to it. She hasn’t betrayed her family or been betrayed by her family or loved and lost or found herself alone in the world. She’s just a _child._

He reaches out and places a palm on her cheek, not caring that the gaggle of angel groupies waiting by his building shriek with jealousy at the sight. But Nicola was here first, so he ignores them. She’s been here for months, not like them. They come and go after they get what they came for: a good fucking, drugs, or simply the chance to thank him for what he did. 

Not that he did anything except let Sam out of the cell that would have kept him from killing a third of the world’s population. No, not that he did anything else at all.

“You’re a good woman, Nicola,” he tells her, wishing his hand didn’t shake against her skin. “But you’ve got the wrong man. I’m not worthy of your love. I’m not worthy of anybody’s love.”

Her eyes fill up with tears. “Don’t say that, please,” she says desperately. “You are. You really are. I can see it in you, I really can. Please come to my church and meet my daddy. Please, sir.”

The last thing Castiel wants to do is sit down for a talk with a priest, so he steps away from her and sighs. “It won’t happen, okay? I’m here and I’m staying here. I’m staying like this. You’re not going to change me.” 

“You’re sick,” Nicola announces, her voice breaking. “You’re sick, can’t you feel it? You’re so thin and you never eat, I know you don’t. All these times I’ve waited for you, and I’ve never once seen you carrying groceries, only alcohol. All you do is drink and take drugs and it’s going to _kill_ you, don’t you see that?”

Castiel shrugs. “It’s my life, Nicola. You’re just going to have to accept that. Get over it. Get a life of your own.”

He turns his back on her and walks through the throng at the door, trying to ignore the hands that trail down his back and the voices in his ears begging him for attention. He’s not their idol. He’s just a man now, and he doesn’t want to give anybody anything any more. 

Now he simply wants to take, and that’s just what he does when he gets upstairs – _takes_.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He doesn’t wake up for two days. When he does, Billy informs him matter-of-factly that he’s just pulled through a pretty damn serious overdose and Billy had saved his life when the bastards at the local hospital had refused to take him in because he didn’t have insurance. Hospitals aren’t easy to get into these days, though, even if you do have insurance: all their beds are usually full.

“Oh,” is all Castiel says in response. “Thanks for trying.”

He feels terrible, sick and tired and achey, but the thought that he’d come so close to dying really doesn’t bother him at all.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

It gets worse and it’s all Nicola’s fault. Castiel has to stop leaving the building because she’s always there, day or night, and he can’t understand how she can do that – how she can give up on her life to such an extent that _he_ is her life. He knows it all comes from her heart; she wants to help him and most of all she wants to save him, but it’s driving him nuts. He doesn’t want to be saved, can’t she get that into her stupid skull?

A week after the overdose, Billy’s friend, Ian, brings over two women he introduces as “fans” and Castiel spends the night getting drunk on neat vodka as they giggle and stroke his arms appreciatively. They’re beautiful and he enjoys the way they look at him with something in their eyes that isn’t reverence or curiosity. It’s lust and possessiveness; they want to claim him for their own. 

He likes that.

They get down to it in a muddle of arms and legs while Billy and Ian have a conversation about the Lakers in the far corner of the room. Castiel finds himself half-listening as they discuss the players who died, the ones who were found safe and the brand new ones who will have their first shot at fame next season. The mundanity of it strikes him as odd. He’s having a threesome while his two friends discuss sport? But then again, this is the way his life’s going these days: sex and booze and drugs are as normal as changing your socks when you get up in the morning. 

He kisses the woman on his right and gasps a little when the other one goes down on him, then tries his damnedest to filter out all talk of basketball as she sucks at his flesh. The woman he’s kissing smiles before purring, “Have some sugar, _sugar,_ ” and feeds him a yellow pill from the tip of her tongue which he licks off and swallows without a concern. After that there’s nothing but blurry pleasure and warmth and the faint sensation that he’s floating. 

It’s like he’s flying, and he relaxes into it because it feels like home.

Sometime during the night Ian comes over and joins in the proceedings. Castiel isn’t really together enough to object – nowhere near it, in fact – and so he just lets him do what he wants, his mind off somewhere peaceful while his body stays firmly on planet Earth. Ian’s rough and powerful and sure of himself; he knows exactly what to do and how hard to do it. Castiel allows him, so stoned he’s actually amazed he can feel a thing. What he _can_ feel doesn’t feel great but Ian seems to be enjoying it, so Castiel simply tangles his fingers in the long blonde hair belonging to the nearest girl and pulls her in for an endless, hazy kiss while Ian grunts on top of him and the other girl tries to stick a needle in her arm with hands that shake too much to get it right.

Billy doesn’t seem impressed. He makes far too much noise as he leaves the room to go back to his own apartment, almost as though he’s making a point about their behavior. Castiel wonders if he’s jealous, but then someone’s mouth starts sucking on his neck and he forgets Billy even exists.

When he wakes up just before dawn he’s under a pile of unconscious bodies and he’s so hot he wants to scream. Pushing them away from him moodily, he gets to his feet and somehow manages to make it over to the window, though he has to support himself on the wall the whole way because his legs feel like spaghetti. It takes him three tries to unhook the window catch and push it open before he sticks his head out into cool, fresh air and breathes in gratefully. As soon as his head’s stopped spinning, he looks down at the street. 

There are _words_ down there. 

He doesn’t understand why at first, and he scowls as his addled brain tries to figure them out. They seem to be made up of candles across the sidewalk: hundreds of candles, all flickering in the soft nighttime breeze, little dots of light forming letters.

The words the letters spell out are _God Loves You_.

He pulls his head inside again and sinks to his knees, struck by the sudden urge to cry. 

But he doesn’t, because that would mean Nicola has won.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Castiel doesn’t wake up until mid-afternoon the next day. He almost wishes he hadn’t. The hangover’s bad enough but he’s stiff and sore in places he can’t even remember _getting_ stiff and sore and, on top of that, every time he moves he thinks he’s going to throw up. His companions left him at some indeterminable point in the last few hours and he makes his usual checks of all his meager possessions in case they’ve made off with them, but thankfully everything’s present and correct. 

He opens the drawer beside his bed and stares down at Dean’s necklace for a few moments. The silver cross sparkles in the sunlight before he sighs, closing the drawer again. 

His head feels light and woozy and it strikes him that he hasn’t eaten in at least two days; food isn’t important to him any more except as fuel and his tank’s pretty empty right now. There’s nothing to eat in his apartment so he throws on a t-shirt and some sweatpants and weaves unsteadily down the corridor to see Billy.

“Well, if it isn’t God’s favorite homo,” Billy announces sarcastically as soon as he walks into the room.

The bitterness in his words stop Castiel dead; he’s never heard him sound so cold. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asks, baffled.

Billy’s sitting at his desk staring at something on his computer screen. He doesn’t turn round as he speaks. “Don’t tell me you can’t remember your little encounter last night, Castiel. Don’t think I’m that fucking stupid.”

Castiel rummages around in his head until it clicks; when it does, his stomach rolls. 

_Ian?_ Of all people, why him? 

“Shit,” he says aloud, sickened. “Tell me I dreamt that.”

Billy spins on his chair so he can look at him. “All these months and I never took you for a faggot. I thought, being an angel and all, you wouldn’t swing that way. Guess I was wrong.”

“I was out of my head!” Castiel protests, but even as he does a little voice inside him is screaming that Billy has no right to judge him whether he’d been stoned or not. If he’d wanted to have sex with a guy, then so be it – it wasn’t anybody’s business but his own.

“Poor excuse, man,” Billy drawls, shaking his head. “You had all that pussy and you chose Ian over them? Fuck. You’re sick, you know that?”

“Screw you,” Castiel snaps, his anger finally bubbling to the surface at the way his friend dismissed those two girls as ‘pussy’. He _hates_ that. They were grown women with names and jobs and ideas and dreams, not sex objects. Then again, he’d spent twelve hours with them and didn’t have a clue what those names or jobs or ideas or dreams actually _were,_ but that wasn’t the point.

“Yeah, you probably would screw me if you had the chance,” Billy sniffs. “Ian’s never coming round here again, you got that?”

“Ian’s a sociopath who pulls wings off flies for fun,” Castiel snaps. “Why was he round here anyway? He’s _your_ friend! When I’m sober I don’t even speak to him, you know that. One of those girls gave me a pill... I don’t know what it was. Dammit, Billy, I can’t even remember most of the night!”

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Well, obviously you stuck around long enough to watch. Is that how you get your kicks?”

Billy jumps to his feet and his face flushes crimson red. “You calling _me_ a faggot now, angel? Do I have to remind you that you’re living here for free because of me? That I’m the one keeping you fed and watered and high and off the fucking streets? One more word out of you and you’re out of here!”

Castiel opens his mouth to retaliate but the words choke in his throat. Billy’s right. He can’t argue with him. He can’t risk losing all this. He needs him too much and Billy knows it. Suddenly Castiel realizes he’s at a crossroads: should he fight for his principles, pathetic as they are, or should he suck it up and take whatever abuse his dealer chooses to throw at him because he needs his next hit so bad?

“It was an accident,” he says eventually, hating himself even more than usual for his cowardice. “It won’t happen again. It was Ian’s fault. I’m not like that, Billy. You know me.”

“Yeah, I thought I did.” Billy scratches his chin and sighs. “You need to take a shower, man. I can’t even stand the thought of you in here when you’re all covered in him.”

Castiel’s stomach rolls again and he nods. “Sure. I’ll just...”

Billy’s eyes go wide and round. He stares behind Castiel and says angrily, “How the fuck did you get in here?”

Castiel turns. Nicola is standing in the doorway, her mouth open in a surprised ‘o’. She’s staring at Castiel with a look of horror on her young face and her hands are clenching and unclenching at her sides.

“Is it true?” she asks, her voice thin and reedy. “Did you really have sex with a man?”

Castiel simply stares at her, too stunned to reply. 

Behind him, Billy starts to laugh. “I guess I’m not the only one shocked, huh? Poor little Bible-basher – isn’t your angel holy enough for you any more?”

Nicola remains fixed in place, gazing at Castiel with that horrified look on her face, and he’s so shocked he just can’t think of what to say. He can’t argue that being gay isn’t wrong because it would annoy Billy, and Billy is too important to him. It’s a hideous, terrible feeling.

“No words of defiance, Cas?” Nicola says with uncharacteristic venom. “You really haven’t got a thing to say to me? You don’t want to tell me how sex isn’t wrong and I should try it one day and see for myself? You disappoint me.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. Something isn’t right here. Nicola sounds too confident. The horror on her face morphs into amusement and when she smiles it makes every hair on Castiel’s body stand on end. 

“You’re not her,” he growls.

She tilts her head and her eyes snap to blackness. “No, I’m definitely not.” 

Castiel doesn’t even have to turn round to sense Billy reaching for his gun. The demon raises its hand and there’s a grunt, a thump and a sickening _crunch_. By the time Castiel looks, Billy’s twitching on the floor with his head facing the wrong way and a trickle of blood sliding out of his mouth.

“Good riddance,” Nicola says, pretending to dust off her hands. “He was a jerk. I don’t know how you put up with him for so long. Oh, wait – you’re a junkie, aren’t you? You needed him! Poor you. All those morals you’ve compromised, those standards you’ve dropped. You’re gutter material now, aren’t you, angel?”

It’s odd, but Castiel doesn’t feel anything except anger. There’s no fear for himself at all. This is a demon and it’s going to kill him; fair enough. But he doesn’t want it to take Nicola too. He can’t let it.

“Get out of her,” he snaps.

“Shan’t.” The demon takes a step closer. “That is, unless you let me in you instead.”

Castiel catches his breath and Nicola laughs. He’s never seen her laugh before, but he has a feeling the real Nicola wouldn’t look so terrifying. 

“You really think I’ve come here to kill you, Castiel? I could’ve slit your throat months ago. I’ve been here for a long time, watching how you work, hiding in your friends.” She takes another step forward and Castiel has to fight his instincts to keep standing his ground. “You’ve fucked me a dozen times, angel,” the demon hisses. “Did you really not notice? All those women you’ve been inside and you never felt me in there too?”

“No,” Castiel moans, going cold. 

“You’re pretty good in the sack, you know that? Considering the state you get yourself into first, anyway. I’m fairly certain you could even get it up if you were dead. That’s some ability you’ve got there, sweetcheeks.”

“H-how many?” he asks, self-loathing crawling all over him like bugs on his flesh. “How many women?”

Nicola grins. Her black eyes make her hair look even redder in contrast. “Oh, enough. I lost count after a while – I was having too much fun. They weren’t, of course. Let’s just say there were consent issues, but I managed to make them forget afterwards.” She lifts a hand and inspects her plain fingernails, feigning pride. “I’m pretty good at messing around in people’s heads, you know. There aren’t many of us who can do it, but I’m one of the best.”

Castiel has to throw out a hand to support himself on some shelves. All this time – all these months – and what he’d thought were willing partners had been anything but. He’d effectively been raping women without realizing it. Why hadn’t he noticed? Why hadn’t he been able to sense that there’d been something wrong with them? 

“I’ll give you a moment to let it sink in,” Nicola informs him cheerfully, and walks by him to look out of the window. “Wow. Nice view. I’ll bet before this building was full of skanks it was worth a pretty penny.”

Castiel forces himself to take deep breaths, fighting to remain calm. He’s not going to let this demon possess him – he can’t. He knows too much. He still has all his celestial knowledge; traps and spells and charms that a demon would love to get its hands on. He knows secret ways in and out of Hell and Heaven. He knows every trick and battle maneuver the angels have ever pulled, not to mention strategies they haven’t tried yet. There are no angels left any more, of course, but that doesn’t mean the knowledge can’t be used to hurt people. 

And he knows Chuck’s address, and Carlos’s, and a handful of other hunters who’ve helped him over the years. He knows about _Dean_ – how he thinks, how he hunts, what his weaknesses are. He can’t allow this demon access to all of that. He simply can’t.

He turns to face the window and Nicola looks back at him, so young and pretty and full of promise. She’d never given up on him, not once. She’d spent months trying to convince him to redeem himself. He owes her for that faith, but he doesn’t know how to help her now.

“She’s awake in here,” says the demon, clearly reading the look on his face. “She’s screaming and begging me to let her go. She’s hoping you’ll save her.” She smiles without a hint of warmth. “She loves you very much, but it’s a funny kind of love. It’s all about God and duty and hope. She’s a strange little creature, Castiel. I wonder if she’ll ever get herself laid?”

“Don’t hurt her,” Castiel begs uselessly. “Please don’t hurt her.”

“Will you fight me when I possess you? I like to go down smooth. Fighting upsets my equilibrium.”

Castiel swallows hard and doesn’t answer. The demon studies him for a moment before shrugging. “Oh well. Fighting it is. It’s not like I’m not used to it.”

She moves so quickly Castiel doesn’t have any time to defend himself; suddenly he’s face-down on Billy’s rumpled bed with Nicola’s body on top of his legs. She’s impossibly strong for a person so small and there’s absolutely no point in struggling: no human can fight off a demon, let alone a human who’s weak and sick from too many months skipping meals and shooting up junk. Castiel cries out in anger but the sound is muffled as a hand presses his head into the blankets and fingers wrap around his hair.

“All that lovely, juicy knowledge in there, just waiting for me to find it. If I hadn’t been enjoying screwing you so much, I’d have done this weeks ago.”

“Promise me you won’t hurt her!” Castiel manages to gasp, realizing now that he can’t do a damn thing to save himself. “Once you have me, let her go! She’s got nothing to do with any of this!”

“Oh, hush. I’ll do what I want and you can’t stop me.”

The hand on his head disappears and he feels it yank down his sweatpants. He hisses as a sharp pain assails him: the demon is cutting a line through the ward tattooed on his buttock. He’d been hoping it would protect him, but of course it wouldn’t. This demon had seen him naked before – it knew exactly where it was and how to take care of it.

“This is a good body,” Nicola’s voice tells him approvingly. “I’ve been wearing women for so long it’ll be nice to wear a man again. Although I did have a brief flirtation with a friend of yours last night.”

Castiel chokes. _Ian._ “That was you?”

“I thought I’d have one final fling before I took you in another way.” Hands snake beneath him and twist; Castiel suddenly finds himself lying on his back as Nicola straddles him with her dark eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Poor Ian’s feeling a little wretched today,” she shrugs. “I decided to let him remember the whole thing. He’s probably scrubbing in the shower as we speak.”

There’s a knife in her hands, blood shining on its tip. Castiel watches as she puts it on the bed beside them and leans down to kiss him. He tries to pull away, rolling his head sideways and out of reach, but it’s no good; hands hold him still and Nicola’s tongue slides into his mouth with a soft moan. He feels her body shiver and wonders if that was her or the demon. She’s probably never kissed anybody before in her life. For a first kiss, this is wrong on so many levels Castiel wants to weep for her.

“You taste so good,” the demon murmurs into his ear. “When I’m in you I’m going to make you fuck your little pious friend.”

“ _No!_ ”

Castiel’s scream surprises him as much as it surprises the demon. Suddenly he has the knife in his hand and he’s thrown her off him; she hits the bed on her back and he has the blade at her throat a second later. It’s an ordinary knife, nothing special – it won’t kill a demon in a million years, but he knows he can slice its throat and cut its tendons and slow it down more than enough to let him get away. It’s his only chance and he only has a two seconds to make his move.

Nicola’s face stares up at him, her eyes wide and scared.

_He can’t do it._ He can’t kill Nicola to save himself. He can’t. Whatever the demon makes him do to her once he’s possessed, she might survive it. She could still live. He can’t make that choice for her now – he doesn’t have the right. With a groan, he drops the knife.

“Can’t do it, huh?” The demon smiles. “You’re both going to regret that.”

He’s smacked down onto the mattress and a hand pulls his mouth open. The black smoke that pours out of Nicola’s mouth tastes of sulfur and putrescence, thick and oily in his throat, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it entering his body. He can’t move, he can’t choke, he can’t scream, he can’t do a damn thing as it fills him up inside and spreads throughout his nervous system, taking over his physical functions with a ruthless efficiency. He lifts a hand without ordering himself to do it, thinks desperately _Maybe I can fight this_ and then the demon effortlessly pushes his thoughts to one side and stifles them. 

It’s like being wrapped up in a hot, suffocating blanket and Castiel screams futilely as he fights the feeling. He can still see and he feels himself sit upright on the bed and look down at his hands, flexing his fingers to check they’re working. The movement reminds him that he did the same when he possessed Jimmy Novak’s body and he wonders if this was how Jimmy felt for all those years before his spirit died away and left the body behind. Had he felt this trapped? This _wrong_?

“I think it’s time you learnt a little something about the birds and the bees,” he hears himself say. “Or maybe that should be ‘the birds and the angels.’”

Nicola has her back against the wall on the far side of the room. Castiel can’t understand why she hasn’t run away but she’s still there, staring at him with tears sliding down her face, every inch of her shaking in terror. He rises to his feet and walks over to her and Castiel struggles with every ounce of strength he has left to stop himself.

“You can’t touch me,” Nicola weeps, crossing herself. “I belong to the Lord and you can’t have me.”

“I had your entire body a few minutes ago, you little fool,” the demon grunts, and a hand shoots out and slaps her so hard she falls to her knees. 

_That was my hand,_ Castiel thinks bitterly. _He can’t do this. He can’t!_

Something tingles inside his body. They both feel it and it’s enough to make the demon stand shock-still. 

“What the fuck was that?” it asks.

A wave of _something_ sweeps over his body and he gasps and falls to his knees. It’s some kind of power, something nameless and spiritual, and it makes the demon recoil inside him, twisting and turning under his skin as the sensation overwhelms it. Castiel has no idea what’s happening, none at all, but when it starts screaming he wills the feeling onward and urges the demon out of his body as hard as he can. His mouth opens and the demon’s screams pour out of it, guttural and raw and sounding nothing at all like him even though they’re being produced using his own throat. His body spasms and he collapses to the floor, jerking and shaking furiously as the invader inside him fights the power that’s trying to expel it from its new home.

“That’s it, that’s it!” Nicola yells at him, and her hand grips his as she looms over his face. “Fight it, Castiel! Fight the Evil One!”

To his surprise, when he tries to form words with his lips, they actually come out. “Pro-tect yourself,” he gasps. “S...salt!”

She’s not stupid. She releases his hand in an instant and jumps to her feet, scanning the room quickly with her eyes. She runs out of Castiel’s sight and he can only assume she’s found the tub of salt that’s the staple of pretty much every home since the apocalypse broke and is pouring it around herself – and she’ll need it, because once this demon leaves him...

It starts screaming again and Castiel can feel a force growing inside him, a sensation that feels like a magnet trying to push away another magnet, all energy and repulsion and disgust. He suddenly realizes it’s _him_ ; there’s nothing affecting him from the outside, this is coming from deep inside him – something is reacting to the demon’s presence and wants it gone. He has just enough time to think _I was an angel and my body remembers_ before the demon’s hold on him slips and it swirls inside his flesh, streaming upwards towards his mouth. 

It’s going. He’s expelled it. There’s no way it can stay; his body won’t let it. He opens his mouth in preparation for it to leave...

...and the demon is suddenly in his mind, lashing out, slashing at everything it can find, ripping and tearing at his memories and thoughts and ideas. It’s like there are claws inside his head, knives slicing through his brain, unnatural and agonizing and _wrong_.

It probably lasts ten seconds. It hurts more than anything Castiel has felt in a thousand years. 

The demon pours out of his mouth, streaming and twisting in the air above him until it slinks out of the open window with a whoosh and rush of sulfur. But there’s no sense of relief, nothing except incredible, unimaginable pain, and Castiel can’t do anything except lie on the floor and scream because his mind’s been shredded and torn apart and it hurts so much he wants to die right there and then. It feels as though there’s a metal spike driven through his skull, ice-cold and vibrating along with his thoughts – it’s hideous, the most hideous thing he’s ever known, and he doesn’t understand how he can feel this much pain and still be alive, but he is, God damn it, he _is_.

His vision has blurred and he can’t see who it is who leans over him and places a hand on his cheek; nor can he hear their voice when they start talking to him. He tastes blood in the back of his throat and something soft touches his nose and mouth but he has no idea what it is. He’s still screaming, over and over again because there’s nothing else he can do, but he stops when a white light builds behind his eyes...

After that there’s nothing.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

His own screaming wakes him up. 

There are hands all over him and he’s being carried; he can hear hushed whispers and questions and concern, but he doesn’t care because his head hurts and there’s blood in his mouth and he’s screaming and screaming and screaming.

The whiteness overtakes him again, and he’s gone.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Every time he wakes up the pain is so incredible he can only stay conscious for a handful of seconds. He has no idea where he is or what’s happening to him – all he knows is that he’s suffering. The feeling in his head is so dreadful it overtakes everything else; he’s amazed he can even find the compulsion to breathe. 

He wakes and falls unconscious too many times for him to count, and every time the only sound in his ears are his own screams. After a while they stop, but only because his voice gives out. His mouth is still open and he’s still screaming. It feels as though he’s never going to stop.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

He’s in a bed. That’s the first thing he notices when he has enough awareness to comprehend his surroundings. He’s in a bed in a room with one light and a lot of shadows. There’s someone sitting by him but he can’t make out their face because his vision is too blurry. They don’t move as he stares wildly around him, which makes him think they must be asleep, and the room is peaceful. He has a moment of disorientation in which he remembers how his screams had echoed back to him from the walls.

His head still hurts. Now he’s able to think, he understands that his mind was attacked and ripped to pieces, but it’s all still there. It’s like his head’s a snowglobe and the demon shook it too hard; the snowflakes won’t settle, but none of them have been lost. All he has to do is live through the pain until they start to fall.

_The demon was in my head,_ he thinks suddenly, cold sweat breaking out on his skin. _What did it see before it left me?_

He might be confused about a lot of things but he does know that he seems to be safe right now. Wherever he is, he’s in a bed and somebody’s watching over him. He has no idea who it is but they’re clearly an ally, so he takes a gamble and decides to trust them. He manages to lift a hand and waves it in the air, though it’s so heavy it almost falls backwards and smacks him in the face. The person sitting with him doesn’t notice, so he tries to say _hello_ instead. The word comes out as a moan, confounding him, but it does the trick and the stranger moves.

“You’re back with us,” he says in surprise. Castiel doesn’t know the voice, but he’s not sure he’d know it anyway considering the state of his thoughts right now.

He concentrates as hard as he can. “Chuck,” he grits out, or tries to. The word sounds nothing at all like that in his ears, so he tries again. This time it’s recognizable, but the fact he’s having trouble speaking scares him.

The man leans forward, enough for Castiel to see he’s dressed in black. He has gray hair and there’s a white mark on his neck. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure out that it’s a dog collar – this man is a priest. Nicola’s father, perhaps.

“Did you say ‘chuck’?” he asks uncertainly. “What are you telling me, Castiel? Are you going to be sick?”

Castiel groans. The pounding in his head is getting worse, but he can’t give in to it until he warns his friends. “Call... him,” he mumbles, grabbing a handful of his companion’s shirt. “D-Demon read my... my...” He can’t get the next word out and he frowns desperately, struggling with everything he has, but the pain in his head is growing too quickly and he’s losing it. 

“Chuck is your friend? I understand. I’ll call him. We brought your cellphone with us when we came here, so I assume his number is... Please relax, Castiel. You’ll make yourself sick again.”

It’s too late for that. That mysterious but now-familiar white light starts flashing behind his eyes and Castiel manages to gasp out one last whimper before it consumes him completely.

 

~ ~ ~

 

After that, it gets worse. 

It’s not just what the demon did to him; it’s what he did to himself. As the hours pass he starts craving heroin. It doesn’t matter how much his head hurts or how much he convinces himself that he can’t feel any worse – he does. Hours turn into a day, then two, and the whole time he sinks deeper and deeper into his need and, after that, withdrawal.

The longest he’s gone without a hit in the last four months has been eight hours. After thirty-six, he’s absolutely convinced the demon killed him and he’s in Hell right now.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He determines that he’s staying in the cellar of the house belonging to a couple who attend the church run by Nicola’s father. His rescuers have been careful: he’s well-hidden and they’ve protected themselves with charms and wards, just in case the demon returns. He doesn’t know any of them and he’s never awake long enough to get to know them anyway, but Nicola’s the one who spends the most time with him. She seems paler than usual and her eyes are often red, but she is unbearably kind to him, even when he can’t do anything except choke down his screams and twist on the sheets as the fire builds in his veins.

During one extended period of lucidity he’s able to ask her about Chuck. Her eyes widen and she actually smiles. “Daddy called him and told him what had happened,” she reveals. “He seemed to understand what you wanted to tell him. He’s in danger, isn’t he?”

Castiel nods. “And everybody else I know.” His voice is scratchy and sore.

“He said he’d call around.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “He’s Carver Edlund, isn’t he? Nobody’s ever seen him but daddy figured it out.”

Castiel forces a smile onto his own face. “He is.”

“Wow. Daddy spoke to a prophet.” Nicola giggles. It’s hard to imagine her as she was when the demon was inside her, calculating and ruthless. She’s herself again now and Castiel is seized with the urge to hug her. He can’t, of course, because he can barely lift his head from the pillow, let alone sit up.

“Are you okay?” he asks instead. “Are you over it?”

Her face falls. She sniffs before nodding. “It was horrible, but I learnt a lot. I learnt the way demons think. I can use that in the future to help people. I understand them now.” She takes Castiel’s hand and squeezes it. “And thank you. I saw what you did for me. You could have escaped once you got hold of that knife, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hurt me. You are every inch the man I thought you were.”

Castiel closes his eyes. He thinks about what the demon said about possessing all those women. He thinks about how he’d sex with so many of them. They must have been screaming inside, begging him to stop, pleading with the demon to let them go. Why hadn’t he _noticed_?

“Demons lie,” Nicola says unexpectedly. “You don’t have to believe anything it said.”

“I know,” he answers, before flinching as she leans down and dabs at his nose with a tissue. “What are you doing?”

“You’re having another nosebleed,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Can’t you feel it?”

“No.”

She leans back again. “It was lying, Castiel. Please believe me. Don’t torture yourself.”

He nods. But later, when he wakes up again and Nicola is gone, he remembers that the demon had known where his tattoo was.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

He finds it difficult to talk to anybody after that. His head throbs so hard he sometimes lies for hours moaning helplessly into his pillow, unable to do anything else at all, not even open his eyes. He gets the chills and shakes uncontrollably. The sweating starts and his sheets become soaked through in minutes. Once the vomiting begins he’s barely even aware of what’s going on any more: he doesn’t think about heroin or alcohol or the mess the demon made of his mind. He just wants it to end, and he doesn’t care how.

A stream of strangers keep him company, wiping him down with cool cloths, cleaning what he now knows is blood from his nose or patiently clearing up his mess. He thinks he begs some of them for a hit but they ignore him, possibly because he’s not really speaking properly and they can’t understand him. His speech comes and goes, probably affected by the damage to his brain, but he’s too far gone to worry about it.

The white flashes continue, always followed by a bout of unconsciousness, and they puzzle him. Then the hallucinations start and he’s too busy fighting off demon smoke and knives to spare them any more thought. He sees old comrades who died millennia before, hears wingbeats and singing he knows can’t be real; he thinks God is speaking to him and telling him to destroy the world. He mistakes Father Duttine for Dean Winchester and tries to punch him for a reason he can’t remember afterwards except that it felt like the right thing to do. His eyesight is still blurry and so he can only see faces when they’re up close, but he can spot Zachariah from across the room and it takes three people to keep him from sprinting over there and strangling him. He thrashes and yells beneath them and it’s only afterwards that he remembers hearing Nicola sobbing and her father telling her everything was going to be alright.

Through it all, his head hurts. It hurts and hurts and _hurts_. When he sleeps he has crazy dreams full of snatches of movement and light that he assumes is his mind trying to sift through his memories and categorize them again. He grows more and more tired every hour and by the time the cramps start he’s too exhausted to even cry out.

At some point he wakes up to find a needle in his arm and a clear bag hanging beside the bed that’s feeding him something intravenously. There’s a man checking him over who seems to be a doctor, but Castiel is unconscious before he can answer any of his questions. He sleeps and dreams and hallucinates when he wakes up; then the light bursts in his head and he’s asleep again.

When he wakes up and sees Dean sitting on the chair beside the bed, he knows he’s not real.

“It’s okay, Cas. I’m here.” Dean leans forward and takes his hand. He’s flesh and blood and warm, but Castiel knows it’s not him. 

“I missed you,” he croaks anyway.

The hallucination smiles. “Looks like you got up to some serious shit while I was gone.”

Castiel frowns at him, perplexed. He really sounds like Dean. And he hadn’t denied it, either, not like Father Duttine. “Are you... really him?” he queries, feeling his heart flutter.

Dean remains motionless for a little while. Then he leans across the bed and kisses Castiel gently on the forehead. 

“Well, I ain’t the friggin’ Pope,” he mutters as he sits back down again.

It’s Dean. It’s really him. After all this time he’s finally here and the knowledge is so wonderful that Castiel almost bursts into tears.

“Get some sleep,” Dean soothes him, squeezing his hand. “I’ll watch over you.”

“I need you to do something for me,” Castiel gasps out, the words almost jamming in his throat because he says them so quickly.

Dean nods. “Whatever you want, Cas. Just ask.”

Castiel moans. “Kill me, Dean. Just kill me. Please.”

He doesn’t have time to see the look on his face before the whiteness sparks behind his eyes again and he’s dead to the world for the next few hours.

 

~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

_5\. Kansas City ~ Lawrence_

 

Dean’s still there the next time Castiel wakes up, but as much as he wants to talk to him, he can’t seem to get his lips to form words and his tongue lies thick and heavy in his mouth. Dean can’t read his mind so there’s no way to tell him he hadn’t been joking earlier. He wants to die. He can’t go on like this, in this much pain. It’s not getting better – if anything, it’s getting worse. The flashes of light grow more and more frequent, the cramps intensify and the pain in his head has him curling into a ball and clutching at his skull in agony.

Through it all, Dean stays with him. Castiel wishes he was in a better state to appreciate it, or even to say thank you, but all he can do is moan softly as the pressure pulses in his brain or the cramps riddle his muscles. Dean pulls him upright and holds the bowl before him when he vomits, even though nothing comes out any more and he’s reduced to little more than a retching, twitching heap. Dean places cool cloths on his forehead and smoothes back his sweat-damp hair. Dean holds tissues at his nose when the nosebleeds get too strong. Dean strokes his back when he spasms and whispers calming words in his ear. This is a Dean Castiel doesn’t really know, one who’s gentle and considerate without a trace of sarcasm or snark or self-consciousness. This is a Dean who seems to be the angel while _he’s_ the pathetic wretch trapped in Hell. The thought makes him sob in his delerium, but Dean just wipes away his tears with his fingers and tells him everything’s going to be okay.

His eyesight’s getting worse. His vision is little more than shifting lights and colors and he can’t see any clearer no matter how hard he squints and concentrates. He’s also too weak to move his body, and when he tries he wonders if it’s weakness at all or something else, something like paralysis. With every hour that passes his head feels worse until he wonders if he’s going to die anyway; maybe he didn’t need Dean’s help after all. 

He prays for it. It’s the first time he’s prayed seriously in years.

As he fades in and out he catches snippets of conversation around him. Nicola’s voice is easy to identify. Dean always sounds angry and frustrated. Father Duttine is the voice of reason. There’s another voice, too, which he manages to figure out belongs to the doctor he’d seen at some point, the one who’s been looking after the drip in his arm. 

“I’m telling you, it can’t be done!” the doctor is saying right now, as Castiel lies awake but with his eyes closed. It’s not like he can see much even when they’re open.

“If we don’t take him he could die!” Dean says furiously.

“If you take him, the journey _will_ kill him. I won’t condone it. The hospital’s too far away.”

“There has to be another MRI scanner somewhere closer,” Nicola chimes in hopefully. “Are you sure none of the hospitals around here have got one? Can’t we double check?”

“The Croats destroyed them all,” the doctor says flatly. “They burnt down the hospitals or ripped everything inside them to pieces.”

Nicola’s voice is still hopeful. “It’s been almost a year, though – surely there’s at least one hospital that’s replaced theirs by now?”

“Have you any idea how much those things cost? And who do you think has been building them? Everybody’s been too busy trying to find homes and food to give a damn about building high-tech medical equipment!”

“Okay, okay, we get it.” Dean’s voice sounds tired. “So we can’t diagnose him. Chances are whatever’s happening is beyond science anyway – who knows what that demon did to his mind while it was in there? Which leaves us with one question: what the hell can we do to help him?”

There’s a silence. Castiel begins to drift off but forces himself back to the conversation when the doctor says quietly, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Dean sounds almost offended. “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I can give him morphine and make him as comfortable as possible, but that’s it. He’s getting weaker. The seizures are too devastating. His body’s giving up, Mr Winchester. I’m sorry.”

Castiel misses what they say next; he’s busy putting two and two together. So he’s been having seizures? He doesn’t remember them. But then again, that’s probably exactly what happens when most people have one. It’s not like you’re aware of what’s going on – you’re at the mercy of an electrical storm in your brain. He understands human anatomy very well, right down to the molecules and atoms, because when he was an angel he’d needed to know in order to put Dean back together. He understands now that the demon didn’t just shred his consciousness, as intangible and unknowable as such things are. It had injured him in other, physical ways too, and the damage was killing him. 

That white light he sees every time he passes out must be the onset of a fit. He thinks back to however many days he’s been here – he hasn’t got a clue how many, but it feels like years – and he tries to figure out how many seizures he must have had. Dozens and dozens. Far too many. What with the nosebleeds and the headache on top, he’s screwed. 

He opens his eyes and tries to say Dean’s name, but all that comes out is a strangled groan. Dean’s at his side in an instant though, dry hands closing around his damp palm. “Hey,” says his friend. “Did you hear any of that?”

Castiel nods. He wishes he could see Dean’s face, but he’s just a shape in the gloom.

“It’s down to you, Cas,” Dean tells him firmly. “You have to fight this, okay? Don’t you dare give up on me. You have to fight with everything you’ve got to stay with me.”

_You didn’t stay with me,_ Castiel thinks, but he’s too tired to feel any real bitterness. He manages to squeeze Dean’s hand and Dean takes it as a ‘yes’. Castiel’s not sure, but he thinks he can see him smile.

“That’s my boy,” Dean says warmly. “Hang on in there.”

When the light sparks in his head this time, Castiel knows what it means. He has just enough time to wonder how powerful his convulsions are and then he’s swept away.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

The next time he wakes up, all he can hear is Nicola sobbing. He listens helplessly for a couple of minutes before the light claims him again.

Dean is still holding his hand.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Oh, crap. Not _you._ ”

“Hello, Dean.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t look happy to see you.”

Castiel’s drifting on a wave of morphine, but he knows the voices are real and he can feel the tension in the air around him. He doesn’t know the woman’s voice but he can sense there’s something strange about it. He feels a presence in the room with them, a peacefulness, and he yearns for it to come closer.

“You need to accept this, Dean. It’s his time.”

“Bullshit,” snaps Dean, and Castiel hears him move around the bed so that he’s closer to the visitor. “I don’t care what you say, Tessa, you’re not having him. You can take your scythe and ram it where the sun don’t shine.”

“He’s in pain,” Tessa says reasonably, and her voice is so soothing that Castiel instinctively yearns after it. “Do you really want him to suffer?”

“He was an angel,” Dean growls; he sounds utterly furious. “He was one of God’s soldiers and he lived in Heaven and he kicked ass for longer than I even want to think about. He doesn’t deserve to die like this, some messed-up junkie in the cellar of a stranger’s house with his mind in pieces. He’s better than that! He’s better than this! Can’t you give him another chance?”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You’re not taking him!” Dean shouts. Suddenly he’s there on the bed with him, arms wrapped around his body, lifting him off the mattress and into a fierce, desperate, protective hug, his chest against Castiel’s back. Dean’s breath is hot and frantic on his neck and the movement after so long spent lying still makes his head spin. 

“Please, Dean. I know this is hard for you, but I can’t make exceptions.”

“No! Sam and I saved you once, Tessa. You owe us!”

“That debt is only in your head. Move out of the way. Let me end his pain.”

“It’s my fault,” Dean gasps, and Castiel can feel his body shaking. “I left him and he ended up like this! I was selfish and look what happened! You’ve got to give him a second chance, please, I’m begging you! Can’t you take me instead? He wouldn’t be like this if it wasn’t for me!”

Castiel feels a curl of horror run up his spine at Dean’s words, but he knows now that this woman is a Reaper and he understands their kind very well. She won’t back off or take Dean up on his offer. And he wants _so much_ to tell Dean that he’s ready. He wants to tell him that he’s okay with this – that he’s wanted to die for months now, and at least he’s going to go out in Dean’s arms. But he can’t. He can’t move a muscle. His head’s started to pound, though, hard and strong, like something’s building inside it, and he knows that’s what’s going to kill him. His brain’s going to give up at last. It’ll be an aneurysm, quick and fast and relatively painless. One burst of agony in his head and it’ll all be over.

“If you don’t move, Dean, I’m going to have to move you myself. Please.”

Dean’s crying now: Castiel can feel him tremble, can hear the sound of it in his voice. “Where will he go, Tessa?” he sobs. “Please tell me he won’t go to Hell. Please tell me he’s going to Heaven, even though he disobeyed.”

“That’s for him to find out. I can’t say. It’s out of both our hands.”

Arms squeeze him closer. Castiel releases a moan from his throat and Dean moans against his shoulder in return. “I don’t want you to go, Cas,” he whispers desperately in his ear. “Please stay with me. I can’t lose you as well, I just can’t. I’m so sorry, I really am. I’m so sorry. Please don’t go.” 

Castiel shudders. Suddenly he forgets where he is, who he’s with and what’s happening. He forgets himself. He forgets God and the angels and the Reaper and everything except for the pain in his head. It ramps up quickly, a throbbing that takes his breath away and twists inside his skull like hot, terrible fire...

...and then, in an instant, it’s gone.

_Was that it?_

_Is he dead?_

Castiel blinks and opens his eyes. His vision’s blurry but nowhere near as bad as it was before, although the light from the lamp by the bed is so strong he has to close them again. He only gets the faintest impression of a young woman with dark hair standing in front of him before she speaks.

“Well, it seems he got his second chance after all.”

Dean’s voice sounds wrecked. “What... what just happened?”

“My orders changed. He’s no longer on my list. It’s not very often people get last-minute reprieves. This is... peculiar.”

Dean’s body tenses. “I don’t get it. What, did the Governor call down to Death Row with a pardon? Who changed them?”

“I can’t tell you that. But he’ll recover, Dean. He’ll live. It wasn’t his time after all.”

Castiel’s head is swimming from the morphine and he can feel himself fading out, but he’s still aware enough to feel disappointed. Dean continues to hold him and he feels him tighten his grip even more just before a cool hand rests on his forehead and a presence looms over him, one soaked in pity and serenity and _death_.

“You’re very special, Castiel,” Tessa tells him, stroking his face gently. “You will be strong again. Don’t give up. It isn’t wise to give up when one is so loved.”

He hears Dean say _thank you_ as darkness overtakes him. 

There’s not a flash of white light in sight.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

He sleeps soundly for a long, long time. There are no dreams, no cramps, no interruptions. It’s just solid, blessed sleep, the kind he hasn’t had since the last time he was with Dean. While he sleeps, he heals.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

When he opens his eyes he’s sitting up in the front seat of a moving car, blankets wrapped around him and the seatbelt holding him in place. His head is resting on the window and when he lifts it his neck aches a little, indicating that he’s been there for a while. It’s dark outside and he blinks owlishly, trying to see where the hell he is. 

He spends a few minutes trying to orient himself before he even thinks to look at the driver. 

“You okay?” Dean asks, shooting him an anxious glance. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“What’s going on?” Castiel croaks. His voice is battered and hoarse, but at least the words are there again. He coughs and wipes his mouth with a shaking hand. It feels weird to be sitting up.

“I decided to move you. You’d been in that house for too long – it was only a matter of time before the demon tracked you down. There were too many parishioners who could have figured out where you were. One demon-possession later and we’d have been toast.”

Castiel coughs again. His body aches all over but his head doesn’t hurt any more. There’s the faintest trace of a headache, but that’s it. He’s almost too surprised to feel relief.

“I’m taking you to a friend in Lawrence,” Dean continues, looking him up and down before turning back to the road. “You need some more downtime and we’ll be safe there.”

“I didn’t say goodbye,” Castiel says vacantly.

Dean grins. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure your new friends will be staying in touch. Nicola wrote you a letter. It’s in my bag. She’s a tough cookie, considering how all she ever does is preach. I liked her.”

“Cradlesnatcher,” Castiel grunts without thinking, closing his eyes and letting his head fall backwards onto the headrest.

“I’m wounded, Cas. She’s a _teenager_. Jeez, do you really think I’d sink that low?”

Castiel doesn’t reply. He’s too busy trying to come to terms with the fact that he’s alive and he isn’t in pain. The car falls silent for a few minutes before he asks, “How long was I there?”

“About a week and a half.”

Was that all? “How did you find me?”

“Chuck called me after Father Duttine called him. He said he hadn’t heard from you in months. There must have been a hundred missed calls on your cell, Cas. If you were trying so hard to drop off the face of the Earth, why didn’t you just toss the phone?”

Castiel sighs and chooses not to answer. “Where were you?” he queries instead, opening his eyes and fixing them on Dean’s face.

“Montreal.”

“You were in _Canada?_ ”

Dean shrugs. “Why not? I’ve never been before. Nice place. Lots of mountains. Friendly natives. Not as many demons as there are here. I think they miss the good old US dollar, or maybe they just don’t like the cold.”

Castiel closes his eyes again. His head’s spinning, but it’s from the weirdness of this situation rather than any illness. 

He can’t believe he survived the last week. 

He can’t believe that Dean is sitting next to him. 

“It took me two days to drive down here,” Dean is saying, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Chuck didn’t really know what was wrong with you; he just told me it was serious. He’s moved house, you know. He’s gone to live with Sara’s family in Tallahassee... well, he’s gone to help them rebuild, anyway. The floods down there were pretty fierce.”

Castiel feels himself drifting. His head droops and he can’t find the strength to lift it. The seatbelt is the only thing keeping him upright; his body feels utterly useless. He’s just dozing off when he feels the car pull to a stop and something swipes at his nose, making him flinch in surprise.

“Sorry,” Dean apologizes, grinning ruefully. “Nosebleed.”

Castiel has to take a deep breath before he speaks. “I thought I was better?”

“You are. You haven’t had a seizure in nearly twelve hours.” A hand lifts him by the chin and pull his head upright, dabbing at his face with a tissue. Dean doesn’t meet his gaze, though. He carries on talking like what he’s doing is the most natural thing in the world, although after the last few days and everything Dean must have done for him, wiping his nose is probably nothing. 

“You’ll probably get the nosebleeds for a little while yet, but they’re nothing like as bad as they were,” he observes. He finally looks up and they lock gazes. “You did it, Cas. You beat it.”

Castiel sees how bloodshot and dull Dean’s eyes are. He looks just as bad as he had six months ago, like he hasn’t slept in years. He’s clean-shaven and his hair’s back to its customary short back and sides, but he looks so much older and wearier Castiel feels his heart lurch in pity. He hadn’t been the only one suffering since they were last together. Wherever Dean had gone, whatever he’d done, he was still mourning his brother and trying to come to terms with everything Lucifer had inflicted upon the world. It’s written all over his face, plain as day. 

He can’t do anything about it now, though. He’s too tired. He simply stares mutely until Dean pulls away and starts the engine again, and they ride in silence until Castiel falls asleep against the window.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

His sleep is endless and devoid of dreams. When he wakes up he’s warm and cozy, lying on his side and bundled in a comforter on a double bed that’s the best thing he’s lain on for a long while. The room he’s in is sunny and a gentle breeze blows through the curtains, carrying with it the sound of birds chirping outside. 

He stares at the blue sky behind the glass, feeling a little befuddled, and is so relaxed that he doesn’t jump when a woman’s voice behind him says, “Good mornin’, honey.”

He rolls over to look at the speaker. She’s black, a little on the plump side and youthfully middle-aged. She’s wearing a bright green shirt that makes her dark eyes sparkle with light and warmth. Her smile is both sympathetic and genuine and, as he stares at her, a hand reaches out and pats him on the arm with a familiarity he doesn’t find at all unnerving.

“You’re safe here, Castiel,” she says in a strangely sing-song voice, rich with a Southern accent. “Nothing can touch you while you’re in my home. My name is Missouri and I’m an old friend of the Winchesters’.”

“Hello,” Castiel mumbles, still feeling a little disoriented.

“I knew Dean’s daddy when Dean was so young I could pick him up and sit him on my knee.” Missouri chuckles. “He always used to wriggle off again soon enough. Could never keep that boy still for long.”

Castiel flicks his gaze around the room – which is all flowery wallpaper and yellows and blues, precisely the kind of decor to suit this woman sitting before him – before he asks hoarsely, “Where is he?”

Missouri leans back and _tsks_ with her tongue. “Oh, he practically fell asleep face-down in his Lucky Charms this morning, so I packed him off to bed. Haven’t seen him much since his daddy died but he hasn’t changed one iota – still the stubbornest man this side of the Yukon. I had to threaten him in the end.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Threaten him?”

“I told him if he didn’t get some sleep I’d fill the pockets of all his clothes with pot pourri. I’ve never seen such a look of horror on a grown man’s face.”

He knows he should laugh, but this is all so weird Castiel can’t quite take it in. Missouri sees the look on his face and smiles with such warmth Castiel suddenly gets the feeling that everything is going to be okay.

“You’ve been through such a lot, honey. You need rest and some thinkin’ space and you _really_ need feeding up. You’re so skinny I’m surprised you even have the energy to blink. But don’t worry, Dean brought you to the right place. By the time you leave here you’ll have some meat on your bones. I love to cook and fattening up a scrawny, sickly white boy is something I’m going to see as a challenge.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says softly. He doesn’t have to be an angel any more to sense the energy around this woman – it’s _good_ , the kind of energy the world needs more of. There’s something about her that puzzles him, too, and it’s not until she stands up and smoothes down her denim skirt that he recognizes it. 

“You’re psychic, aren’t you?”

She tilts her head at him. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. How did you know that? Did Dean tell you?”

“No.” Castiel frowns. How _had_ he known that? 

Missouri studies his face. “You were an angel, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think it’s left you, Castiel. You’re still blessed. It’s there, deep inside you, just waitin’ to come out again. I can feel it. That’s why you could read me so well. You’re still sensitive.”

Castiel closes his eyes, stung. She sounds like Nicola, convinced he’s something he’s not. He isn’t an angel any more. There’s nothing inside him except emptiness and a hole he tries to fill up with booze and drugs and sex. That was a lucky guess, that’s all; he’s not _sensitive_. He isn’t anything special. He’s nothing.

“Just you stop thinkin’ like that, honey,” Missouri scolds him suddenly. 

Startled, he looks up at her. She’s standing with her hands on her hips and for a moment she seems a hairsbreadth away from wagging a finger at him. “Look here, sugar,” she declares in a voice that brooks no opposition, “I don’t know you at all and I haven’t seen Dean in a long time, but I do know this: the moment he stepped out of that car I could feel how important you were to him and how worried he was about you. He’s sad and he’s broken and, God help him, he lost his brother in a way nobody should ever have to lose someone they love, but time moves on and the world moves on and the thing he needs more than anything else right now is a friend. You’re it.” 

She stares at him some more, so intently that Castiel almost blushes, before she continues gently, “Actually, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re not a friend. Maybe you’re something more. I’m not going to go poking my nose in where it doesn’t belong, but I won’t stand by and watch you feeling unworthy and useless when there’s a boy sleeping down the hall who needs you to put him back together again. And I think he can put you back together again as well, if you let him. You’re both sick and you’re both lonely and I’m not going to let either of you leave this house without both of you at least _acknowledging_ it.”

Castiel blinks at her, shocked. There’s an uncomfortable pause before Missouri takes a deep breath and rubs her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, with a sigh. “I spent three hours today with Dean and I can read him so clearly it starts to affect me after a while. And you’re just as bad. Both of you are radiating your unhappiness – you’re lit up with misery, like Christmas trees. I just want you to stop because you’re makin’ me tetchy.”

“Sorry,” Castiel mumbles, unsure what he’s supposed to say.

Missouri shoots him a smile. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

Castiel thinks about it. He’s so used to having nothing in his stomach that he doesn’t feel anything any more. He looks down at his arm, at the red pinprick left by the IV line that had been keeping him at least half-nourished while he’d been so ill. It takes him a moment to find it; there are so many marks on his skin to choose from.

“I think I could manage something,” he says uncertainly.

“Good.” Missouri turns her back and bustles out of the room. “Don’t you go fallin’ asleep again, neither,” she calls out as she leaves.

Castiel falls asleep again.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Dean’s standing by the window, staring at the sunset with his arms spread out so that he’s resting his hands on either side of the wooden frame. The room’s a little hot but the breeze coming through the window is cool. Castiel waits for his eyes to adjust to the dimming light – and for his brain to wake up again – before he speaks. He can’t believe how many hours he’s slept, but he feels even better now than he did this morning.

“Hey,” he says.

Dean turns. He looks more rested than the last time Castiel had seen him, but he still doesn’t look _healthy_. His face lights up with a smile when he sees him awake, though, and Castiel finds himself smiling back.

“I was beginning to think you were never going to wake up,” Dean informs him genially. “You have no idea how boring it is hanging around listening to you snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Right, of course you don’t. So all the pictures were rattling on the walls because Lawrence is on the San Andreas Fault, is that it?”

Castiel runs a hand across his face and tries to sit up. Dean steps forward as though he’s going to help, then seems to think better of it, allowing him the chance to test his strength. Castiel’s pleased to find it’s returning, if only a little; he manages to push himself up the bed and leans back on the pillows, panting slightly from the effort.

“How’s the head?” Dean queries.

“I can hardly feel it.” Castiel rubs at his temples. “I can’t believe it’s stopped hurting. I thought I was...” He stops, remembering Tessa and the way the pain had stopped so suddenly. “The Reaper tried to take me, didn’t she? But someone told her not to.”

Dean huffs out a breath and sits on the bed. “You remember that?” He smiles thinly. “I guess you’ve got someone looking out for you.”

Castiel looks down at his hands. “I doubt it.”

“Hey, _someone_ took your name off her shopping list. Who’s responsible for ordering the Reapers around anyway?”

“Their commands come from somewhere high up.”

“High up as in God, or someone else?”

“The same place Chuck’s visions came from. I don’t know how high up that is.” Uneasy with the subject matter, he decides to change it. He glances up at his companion. “You look better without the beard. I never did like it.”

“I didn’t either.” Dean rubs his chin absently. “I found another way of getting around under everybody’s radar, so I didn’t need it any more. And speaking of personal grooming...” He leans forward and, with amazing un-selfconsciousness, tucks a curl of hair behind Castiel’s ear. “You look really different with long hair. I can’t believe it’s grown so much since I saw you last. You look like a surfer dude, dude.”

“It’s always in my eyes,” Castiel says weakly, feeling a little embarrassed for some reason. He tenses as Dean runs a finger down the half-grown beard covering his cheek and clears his throat. “You don’t need a disguise any more? What did you do?”

Dean pulls his hand away. “I got a face transplant,” he announces seriously. Castiel scowls at him until he laughs. “Okay, okay, so it was a little less complicated. I found a witch and got her to cast a glamor.”

“A... glamor? Really? I thought you hated witches?”

“They have their uses.” Dean rolls up his left sleeve and holds out his arm. In the crook of his elbow is a small sigil Castiel recognizes as an ancient rune for _concealment_. “I got that in New Orleans two months ago. Haven’t been recognized since. It makes me look like someone else – you can only see through it and see the real me if you’ve met me before.”

“Who does it make you look like?” Castiel asks, intrigued.

Dean shrugs. “Hell if I know. Small children don’t run away screaming every time I walk into a room, so I assume he’s at least halfway okay.” 

He rolls his sleeve down again without lifting his head. It takes Castiel a few moments to realize that he’s not staring at the comforter – his eyes are on the needle marks spanning the length of Castiel’s left arm. Awkwardly, Castiel lifts it and goes to slip it under the comforter, but Dean takes his wrist and holds him still.

“What were you thinking, Cas?” Dean says quietly.

There’s nothing Castiel can say to that, so he doesn’t speak as Dean runs a finger down the length of his vein. There are a lot of puncture wounds. There are just as many on his right arm; he’s ambidextrous, so it was as easy to shoot up using right or left. There are marks in other places on his body, too, for the days when his veins were being tricky. He’s a mess and he knows it.

The silence stretches on as Dean strokes his arm, and Castiel feels something building around them, like electricity, but he doesn’t know what it is. Dean doesn’t seem to care about touching him. It’s weird and so unlike the old Dean Castiel doesn’t know what to make of it. It occurs to him that maybe it’s been a while since Dean’s touched anyone; that’s he’s craving contact. Oddly, Castiel has had too much contact with too many people in the last few months, but nothing feels as good as these gentle fingers exploring his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says suddenly, sounding choked. “I didn’t know, Cas. I had no idea you were going to go off and do... this. I was scared and selfish and I couldn’t handle being with you. I’m so sorry.”

For six months, Castiel blamed Dean for everything he was doing. Without Dean his world fell apart. Dean was the reason he started drinking, took the drugs, became an addict and screwed a whole bunch of women who were trapped inside their own bodies by a cruel, twisted demon. Dean was the reason he nearly died a few days ago. Dean was the reason he ended up this way. Everything was Dean’s fault. 

Except it wasn’t. 

“Don’t apologize, please,” he snaps, pulling his arm out of his grip. “It wasn’t down to you. I’m a grown man, Dean. I’m–” A savage laugh leaves his throat. “Fuck, I’m so old I can’t even tell you how many years I’ve been around. I don’t _know_. There are too many of them, in too many calendars for me to count. I’m old enough to know better, that’s for sure. No way should any of this be your fault.” He looks up at the ceiling, trying to control his breathing, which is suddenly fast and urgent. “Everything I did, I did to myself. You had nothing to do with it. I was the weak one, not you.”

“Don’t give me all that ‘I’m ancient’ crap, Cas,” Dean presses him, shaking his head. “None of that matters. You were an _angel_ for all those years, but you’re human now. You’ve been human for, what, three years? Four, if you count all those months when you were losing your powers. How the hell are you supposed to know how to handle it when nobody’s around to show you?”

Castiel goes to answer him, but suddenly he can’t think of what to say. Dean reads his confusion in his eyes and smiles sadly. “You’re not weak, Cas,” he says softly. “You’re just... human.”

Castiel looks down at his arm. “I hate it,” he moans, surprising himself. “I don’t want to be like this any more.”

“You’ll be okay. You just need someone to show you the ropes, is all.”

Castiel wants to ask if that someone is Dean, but he’s too scared he’ll see fear in his friend’s eyes. Dean runs away. That’s what he does now. He used up all his strength killing Sam and putting an end to Lucifer; there’s nothing left inside him any more to help him face the rest of his life.

“Let’s start with something very, very basic,” Dean declares with sudden playfulness, and the atmosphere in the room completely changes. “You stink, Cas. Nearly dying at the hands of a demon is no excuse to quit taking showers. You need to clean up.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Castiel mutters darkly. “Would it have killed you to be a little more tactful?”

“I’m only telling it like it is. Come on, I’ll help you get to the bathroom. It’s right next door.”

“I don’t think I can stand.”

“That’s why I said I’d help you, doofus.”

It’s a slow process, but eventually Castiel finds himself standing under the shower with Dean at his side. He isn’t embarrassed to be naked in front of him at all – modesty isn’t really one of his hang-ups – but the moment he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror he suddenly feels as though he should be. He’s so thin he could probably count his ribs from a mile off. There are bruises dotted all over his body which he can only assume he obtained during his convulsions, not that he remembers. His hair is hanging in greasy, unwashed tangles just below his ears and his eyes are red and lifeless. The man in the mirror isn’t him. He doesn’t know who it is, but it isn’t him.

Dean strips down to his boxers and showers with him, which is kind of weird but also very necessary. Castiel’s hands start shaking within minutes and even though he tries as hard as he can, he just can’t seem to do anything. Dean is unbelievably patient, soaping him up and rinsing him off without a word, a look of concentration on his face that makes him seem younger. He lets Castiel wash the parts of himself that are too intimate, averting his eyes the whole time, much to Castiel’s weary amusement. But by the time Castiel tries to wash his hair he’s had enough; his legs give way and Dean has to sit him on the tiles and lather up his head himself.

As demeaning as it is not being able to wash his own hair, he has to admit that it feels nice to have someone do it for him. Dean’s fingers are gentle and thorough. He takes care not to get soap in Castiel’s eyes and rinses him with such calculated precision it almost makes him laugh. By the time Dean stands up and turns off the shower, Castiel feels almost human again. Not that he wants to.

“Are you goin’ for the Grizzly Adams look or do you want me to shave you?”

Castiel scrapes his wet hair back off his face and looks up at him. Dean’s flushed and dripping wet, the handprint on his shoulder standing out against his flesh so strongly Castiel can’t help but stare at it. Images of saving Dean from Damnation flash through his mind. He remembers how Dean had asked the Reaper if he was going to Heaven or Hell when he died, and it occurs to him that he’s never given it any thought. 

Where _is_ he going to go when he dies? 

Dean clicks his fingers in front of his eyes and frowns. “Hey man, you still with me?”

Castiel catches his breath, blinking back to the present. “S-sorry. What did you say?”

“I said, do you want a shave?”

Castiel nods without thinking, still a little distracted. Dean wraps a towel around himself and then tucks one around Castiel’s waist, helping him get to his feet. He puts the lid down on the toilet and sits him on it, then pulls a can of shaving foam out of his washbag and spreads a few handfuls of the contents across his face. It smells of mint and something astringent, like tea tree oil, and it wakes Castiel up from his reverie.

“I need to give you a new tattoo,” Dean says matter-of-factly as he picks up his razor. “That’s a nasty scar you’re gonna have on your butt. That demon knew exactly how to cut through it.”

“I think a scar is the least of my worries,” Castiel says blankly. 

“Waste of a good butt,” Dean mutters to himself, so quietly that Castiel thinks he’s misheard, and then moves to stand behind him. He twists Castiel’s body so he can pull his head back against his chest. A hand rests at his throat and then the razor slides up his neck until it hits his chin, the harsh _scrape_ of stubble loud in the tiny bathroom.

“Relax,” Dean orders after a few moments. “I’m not Sweeney Todd.”

Castiel tries, but his mind’s racing. Dean shaves his neck and is just starting on his jaw when he jerks his head away and says, “You asked Tessa to take you instead of me.”

Dean freezes. “What of it?”

Castiel gazes up at him in confusion. “Why would you do that?”

A shrug. “Because you didn’t deserve to die. Because I felt like it. Because it seemed like a good idea at the time. I don’t know, Cas, okay? I just couldn’t watch you die.”

Castiel shakes his head in amazement. “I’m not Sam. You know that, right? You don’t have to keep sacrificing yourself for him any more.”

Dean’s face hardens. “Do you want me to finish this shave or do you want to walk around looking like you’ve got mange?”

It’s clear Dean doesn’t want to talk about it, so Castiel leans back into his chest again. For a few minutes the only sound is the scrape of the razor against his skin. He closes his eyes, finding it inexplicably relaxing, before jolting awake as Dean pats his face with a washcloth and slaps him on the shoulder.

“Soft as a baby’s butt,” he announces. “You look like you again. Apart from the hair.”

Castiel doesn’t raise his hand to check his skin. Instead he looks up at Dean and sighs. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Next time I’ll line up a barbershop quartet to keep us entertained while I shave you.”

“I wasn’t talking about the shave.”

Dean huffs out a breath and looks away. “Yeah, well. You’d do the same for me.”

Castiel lowers his head. Yes, he would. It wouldn’t matter to him whether his soul ended up back home or down in the Pit: he’d do the same for Dean.

“I’m tired,” he murmurs, suddenly feeling cold. “Can you take me back to bed?”

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Nicola’s letter is resting on the nightstand when he wakes up. He rips open the envelope and reads her words. They’re written in purple ink in handwriting that is purely, perfectly Nicola, all swirls and flourishes on pretty pink paper with flowers and rainbows printed down one side.

_He couldn’t let you die,_ it says. _I told you He loved you._

Castiel has to read it four times before he realizes she’s talking about God, not Dean.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Days pass, and Castiel settles into an easy routine which is nothing like he’s ever known in his life. For starters, Missouri waits on him hand and foot, clearly relishing the chance to look after somebody. He knows nothing about her at all, but he sees photos in frames dotted around her house and most of them contain pictures of her looking twenty years younger with a handsome, smiling man on her arm. Her husband, perhaps, but he’s not here any more. Missouri is jovial and friendly and often contagiously happy, but underneath it all Castiel suspects she’s a little lonely.

She might treat Castiel like he’s special but she bosses Dean about with so little regard for his pride that it’s often hilarious. Dean reacts with outrage and sputtered disapproval but he always does what she says, whether it’s tackling the dishes after a meal or going out and collecting groceries. Every now and then he’ll throw Castiel a long-suffering glance that says _This is your fault, I hope you’re happy,_ and Castiel always looks as innocent as he can.

At first Missouri brings meals and drinks up to his room, but after two days she orders him out of bed and Dean helps him down the stairs and onto her couch. It’s difficult to walk when he feels so weak but it’s amazing how rapidly his body starts to recover after a few decent meals and lots of rest – not to mention the lack of anything toxic in his system. He craves it, though. He doesn’t say anything to his companions but sometimes he wants to scream because the urge to shoot up is so strong. He goes through Missouri’s cupboards one morning while she and Dean are still sleeping and finds a bottle of whiskey. He stares at it for half an hour before shutting the cupboard door again and throwing himself face-down on the sofa, shaking. 

It’s so difficult to be strong after everything that’s happened, and his body – still so new to him, even after a few years – confuses him by demanding so much that he can’t have. He fights it. He owes that to Dean, at least. The cravings are all-consuming and terrible, but he refuses to break, even when he can’t think about anything else.

Missouri spends most of the day with him and Dean but, sometimes, she’ll get an unsettled look on her face and will make excuses and disappear. It takes a while for Castiel to realize that she always does it when he’s feeling low, or when Dean gets that look in his eyes that means he’s thinking about the night he killed his brother. Missouri is a powerful psychic. She can pick up on their thoughts and feelings; occasionally it must overwhelm her. Castiel feels guilty about bringing such pain into her home, but she always pats him on the arm and hands him a cookie, like he’s a child, and tells him everything will get better. It’s hard not to believe her. She seems so sure of herself and, somehow, of him. 

Dean regales them with stories of the hunts he’s been on across the past year, not all of them happy – he’s traveled around a lot and he’s seen the evidence of Lucifer’s reign first-hand. Whole towns have been flattened. Mass graves litter the countryside. Fires have destroyed countless homes and killed thousands of people. He says it’s improving, however, and they watch CNN on Missouri’s battered old television and get the sense that the worst is long over. The world has picked itself up and dusted itself off, but it’s still bloody.

Lawrence, from what Castiel can see of it as he stands on Missouri’s front porch and gazes down the street, is completely untouched. He feels the same way he’d felt the last time he was here: that he’s in a bubble of unreality, and it’s going to burst at some point and all the blood and death that hit the rest of America will come flooding in.

It doesn’t.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Castiel’s feeling well enough to do some work for once. Missouri sits at the wooden table in her back garden and pours iced lemonade as he and Dean weed her flowerbeds diligently, although Dean’s complaints are starting to make Castiel think that maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. For a man who’s probably never weeded a garden in his life, he’s acting as though he’s hated doing it since the day he was born.

“I just don’t see why they can’t just stay here,” he grunts, throwing a handful of dandelion leaves into the wheelbarrow behind him. “What’s wrong with a few more green things growing wild? We’re being prejudiced towards plants. Plant-ist. We’re choosing who lives and who dies. It’s not fair.”

“Hush your whining, Dean Winchester, or I’ll make you mow the front lawn next,” Missouri sniffs, ice clinking against glass as she prepares their drinks. “That’s a lot more effort than pulling up a few leaves, especially on a day as hot as this.”

“I like mowing lawns,” Dean mutters quietly. “At least grass _expects_ it. And it keeps growing.”

“When have you ever mown a lawn?” Castiel asks disbelievingly. 

Dean looks away. “I’ve done it. Right here in Lawrence, in fact. Though it wasn’t a real lawn.”

“You mowed an imaginary lawn?” Castiel frowns. “Oh, wait... are you setting up some kind of double-entendre here? That’s gross, Dean. Missouri’s listening.”

“I can think about some things that don’t involve lady parts, you know,” Dean huffs. He leans back on his heels and wipes his forehead with his wrist. “And it was a real lawn. Kinda. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Take a break before you dehydrate, boys,” Missouri instructs, beckoning them over to the table. 

Dean shoots Castiel a grin and jumps to his feet. It takes Castiel a little longer to stand – his body still isn’t used to moving so much, and he weaves a little on his way to the table. If his companions notice, they don’t say a word.

“So what did everyone in Lawrence do during the apocalypse?” Dean asks, after gulping down half his glass of lemonade. “It really looks as though nothing happened here at all. It’s kinda creepy.”

Missouri gives him a sharp look and purses her lips. “You’re thinking we didn’t deserve to be so lucky, aren’t you? That perhaps we should’ve gotten a taste of what the rest of the world went through?”

Dean looks thoroughly shame-faced. “That’s not what I–”

“You’d be right, up to a point,” Missouri interjects, trailing a finger down the condensation on the side of her glass. “We were pleased with ourselves, at first. All that death and destruction hitting the rest of the country and here we were, still moseying along, minding our own business, keepin’ our noses clean. After a while folks started thinking that we’d been blessed. That God was watching over us.”

“It wasn’t God,” Castiel says gruffly, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, we found that out,” Missouri sniffs, nodding at him. Her eyes lose some of their brightness and she looks down at the table. “Lucifer came here. He walked down that very street.” She tilts her head to indicate the road behind the house. “I could feel him coming from... oh, such a long way off. All that bitterness and anger, wound up so tight and fierce inside him, like he was... like he was a firework just waitin’ to go off. I’ve never felt anythin’ quite like it. Terrible and cold, but there was something else, too. Something...”

She stops, searching, and Castiel swallows nervously before supplying, “Glorious?”

Missouri’s head snaps up. “Yes. Yes, that’s it. He was an angel, after all. He had the same kind of feel you have sometimes.”

“Cas isn’t an angel any more,” Dean interrupts flatly.

“Cas is wrong,” Missouri says with certainty, fixing her eyes on Castiel’s face. He looks away, feeling his heart lurch a little.

There’s a pause before Dean asks, “So you saw Lucifer, then?” There’s a tightness in his voice Castiel recognizes.

Missouri nods. “I couldn’t help it. He felt so powerful, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to curl up in a ball and whimper or run up to him and fall at his feet. I looked out of the window when the feeling grew too strong.”

Dean sniffs. “Must’ve been a shock, seeing Sam standing there.”

“It wasn’t Sam,” Missouri declares vehemently. “There wasn’t a trace of your brother in there, Dean. He was gone. He’d been burnt out. There was nothing in that body but _Devil_.” 

Dean’s body has tensed. Unthinking, Castiel leans into him, brushing his arm with his own.

“He looked me right in the eyes,” Missouri says wistfully. “Looked right on up at my window and smiled at me. He waved. I thought he was goin’ to kill me, and then he just kept right on walking.” She blinks, seeming to come back to the present, and lifts her glass. “After that, the whole city was terrified. We didn’t feel blessed any more. We thought Lucifer was savin’ us for something. And there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it.”

A silence falls. Eventually Dean says shakily, “It’s the anniversary tomorrow.”

Castiel looks up, surprised. He’d completely forgotten. 

“I thought I’d go see Sammy,” Dean continues. “The cemetery’s so close, it’d be wrong not to.”

“Do you want company?” Castiel asks, as Missouri pats Dean on the arm.

“Nyah. I think I should go alone.” Dean takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky. “This time last year we were all thinking the world was ending.”

“Thanks to you it’s not,” Missouri says kindly. “Don’t you ever forget that, Dean Winchester. My cousin Simone just had a baby girl, did I tell you that? Two weeks ago, the night before you showed up on my doorstep. I’m heading out to Eudora to see her for the first time tomorrow. That’s a new life in the world, all because of you, honey. I’d take you with me if I could, just so you can see her dear little face.”

Dean actually smiles at her words, looking strangely vulnerable. “Maybe another time. But that’s good news. I’m very happy for your cousin.”

“She called her Mary,” Missouri announces smugly. “I don’t think I have to tell you why.”

Dean nods and looks down the garden, his eyes filled with emotion. Castiel glances at Missouri and she grins at him. “You haven’t finished my flowerbeds yet,” she scolds. “Move your butt, lazybones.”

She goes inside the house and leaves them to weed in silence for the next hour, but it’s a companionable silence. Dean concentrates on pulling weeds out of the dry earth and Castiel tries to match his pace but starts to tire. He’s a lot better but his body hasn’t quite relinquished the joys of falling asleep whenever it wants to; when he yawns, Dean sits up and glares at him. 

“You can’t be tired _again_.”

Castiel shrugs. “Sorry.”

“I’m starting to think you made a pact with the Sandman or something.”

Castiel puts his trowel down and sits back, staring at his earth-streaked hands. “I have no idea who that is.”

Dean chuckles. “He brings you a dream,” he explains. “He’ll bring you the cutest guy that you’ve ever seen. Or, er, something. It’s been a while since I heard the song. And it’s a chick song, anyway.”

“Really,” Castiel says disinterestedly. He looks up and meets Dean’s gaze. He’s flushed from bending over the flowerbeds for so long, as well as a little sunburnt and sweaty. There’s a streak of dirt on his cheek and his eyes are sparkling in the sunlight. For a moment, just a moment, Castiel thinks he’s going to kiss him, but he doesn’t. Dean clears his throat, brushes soil off his hands and climbs to his feet. 

“Come on, we’re done here. I need a shower and then I want to eat that pie Missouri’s been baking all day. Boy, can that woman cook.”

Castiel wipes his hands on his jeans and gets up too, but he hasn’t taken two steps before he feels dizzy and sways alarmingly. He doesn’t even have a chance to make a sound before Dean’s arms are around him, holding him upright firmly. Two anxious eyes stare into his. 

“You okay, man?”

Castiel takes a few deep breaths and nods. “Just a headrush. Got up too fast.”

“Good. You had me worried there.”

Dean doesn’t let him go. Castiel feels a trickle of sweat running down his back. His hands are flat against Dean’s damp t-shirt and he can feel his heart racing under his fingertips. A soft breeze blows his hair in front of his eyes and Dean lifts a hand and tucks it back behind his ear for him.

“Thanks,” Castiel breathes stupidly.

“I don’t seem to want to let you go,” Dean observes, sounding a little surprised. 

“I noticed.”

“I think it’s because I want to kiss you.”

“Really?”

“Can I kiss you, Cas?”

Castiel closes his eyes, sighs and opens them again. “If you don’t, I’m probably going to knee you in the crotch. Just so you know in advance.”

Dean smiles. “I’d better do it, then.”

Dean’s lips taste of sweat, dirt and lemonade. His hands fall from Castiel’s waist to rest on his ass and Castiel slides his own around to pull Dean closer, settling them in the small of his back. They lose themselves in each other for so long that Castiel starts to feel breathless; but he doesn’t stop, no way is he stopping, because Dean is solid and strong and perfect against him and he kisses like he’s been waiting to kiss Castiel all his life and he uses just enough force to still be _Dean_ while Castiel, in return, thrusts inside his mouth with his tongue and proves that he’s not a pushover. They’re both strong but they’re both equal and they’re both utterly and thoroughly on the same page here.

When Dean finally pulls away he’s breathing so hard it’s like he’s been running, not standing shock-still at the bottom of a weed-free garden. “Whoa,” he gasps, licking his lips.

Castiel’s panting himself. “If you say so,” he replies, releasing Dean’s back. As he pulls his hands away he realizes they were filthy. Dean’s white t-shirt probably isn’t white any more.

“That was pretty cool,” Dean declares with child-like glee. 

It’s been a while since Castiel’s seen him look so pleased with himself, so he laughs and shakes his head. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to knee you in the nuts.”

Dean fakes a frown. “Pain in the ass.”

“Idiot.”

They kiss again, quickly this time, and then the spell is broken. They walk towards the house and Castiel smothers a smile as he sees two muddy handprints on the base of Dean’s spine, a perfect reminder of what just happened. 

“Will Missouri know?” Dean hisses to him as they open the back door. “She’ll read our minds, won’t she? Do you think she’ll freak out?”

Castiel tears his eyes away from the prints and grins. “Dean, I honestly think she’ll be too busy applauding.”

 

~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

**Pairing:** Dean/Castiel

 

_6\. Lawrence ~ Indianapolis_

 

 

Castiel almost expects Dean to sneak into his room that night like a lovestruck teenager, but he doesn’t. They’re in Missouri’s house and no matter how supportive she’s been of them so far – and after this evening and the looks she’d been throwing them, that support really is all-encompassing – they should still show their host some respect. 

Besides, Castiel doesn’t want his first time with Dean to be some muffled, awkward fumble under the comforter with someone sleeping in the next room that they don’t want to wake up. Someone who’s psychic, no less; someone who might feel everything they do, and how unsettling was that idea? No, he wants it to be _wild_. Hell, they’ve been waiting long enough – why not go with a bang?

He falls asleep with a smile on his lips, feeling irrationally happy, but when he jolts awake a few hours later to the sound of Dean screaming it’s an unwelcome reminder of just how fragile their happiness is. 

He jumps out of bed so quickly his legs refuse to support him, almost like he’s taken them by surprise. He hangs onto the dresser for a few moments, trying to collect himself, and by the time he makes it into the hallway he can hear voices. Missouri is already in Dean’s room. Her voice is soothing and calm and Castiel suddenly finds himself wondering how often this has happened in the last couple of weeks – how many nightmares Dean’s had, how often Castiel has slept on through his screams, so sick and exhausted he hasn’t woken up. Missouri doesn’t sound upset or surprised in the slightest. _She’s used to this,_ he thinks. She’d been there for Dean when he couldn’t be. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he hears Dean tell her, and for some reason it makes Castiel stop dead outside his door. “Every time I think I can handle it, something inside me wants to run away and keep on running. Is there something wrong with me? Why can’t I do this?”

Castiel goes cold.

“I hate to break it to you, honey, but you’re a _man_ ,” says Missouri gently. “You’re just scared of commitment, like ninety-nine per cent of the men on this planet of ours. The thought of staying with someone for more than a month fills you with fear because it fills _every_ man with fear. And he’s a man too, which only makes it worse. You’re still tryin’ to come to terms with that, aren’t you?”

“I like girls,” Dean sniffs, sounding a little apologetic.

“Sure you do, sweetheart. But you like him too. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not about sex with him, is it? You’re in love. I could see it the moment you pulled up in front of my house. And love isn’t anything to be ashamed of, you big galoot.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“That’s because it _is_ easy, Dean! I saw you in the garden today. Hell, I felt you both. You were so happy. Why would you ever want to run away from that?”

“Because it won’t last,” Dean growls, suddenly sounding angry. Castiel holds his breath. 

“What makes you think–”

“It just won’t, okay? Everybody I’ve ever loved has left me, Missouri. You don’t know what it’s been like for me! You haven’t seen me in years, you don’t know how hard it’s been! I had to send people into battle knowing they’d die. I had to lose good friends, people I considered family. Dad went to Hell for me and he held out for so many years while he was tortured, and what did I do when I got down there? I caved right away and set off the apocalypse! And then my own brother ended it and I had to kill him. How am I supposed to believe that anything good can come out of all that? How am I supposed to get on with my... Ow!”

Castiel blinks. That had sounded for all the world as though Missouri had smacked him on the back of his head.

“Dean Winchester, so help me – you’re the dumbest boy I’ve ever met, you know that?”

“Why did you hit me?”

“I’m trying to wake you up! Has it ever occurred to you that all of that is over? That you’re free? And that your reward is asleep in that room down the hall and just waiting for you to man-up and do something about it? He’s the one thing that can make you happy now, Dean, and you’re the only thing that can make him happy too.”

There’s a very long silence. Castiel is too scared to breathe. Suddenly it hits him that despite her words, Missouri knows damn well he’s here. She can sense his presence and she’s trying to get through to the both of them. Tears prickle at his eyes; he loves her so much right now there aren’t enough hugs in the world to give her.

Dean doesn’t sound convinced, however. “You’re wrong,” he says quietly, and Castiel clenches his fists. “He needs me too much.”

“How in the world could anybody need you _too much?_ Being needed is a good thing!”

“No, it’s not. Sam needed me all his life and look what happened. I can’t have someone else looking up to me like that, Missouri – I should be able to stand on my own two feet without supporting someone else. He wants so much from me and I just can’t give it. I’ve never been alone, not really, not until this year. I need _not_ to be needed.”

Missouri actually sounds angry now. “Okay, sugar, I get you. You’ve spent most of the past year by yourself. How’s that been working out for you, hmm? How have the nightmares been, and the panic attacks, and everything else I know you’ve been hiding from me because you’re too stubborn to face up to the fact that you hate being alone?”

Dean sighs. “Jesus, having an argument with a psychic is impossible.”

“Damn straight it is, sunshine, and don’t you forget it! I know what’s in your head, boy. You’re fooling yourself. You only _think_ you need to be alone – it’s not true. You’re just too scared to connect with someone.” She huffs. “Honestly, you men are so useless I’m amazed us girls ever get a single one of you to settle down and have little ones. The knots you tie yourselves into trying to stay young, free and single!”

“He lost God, Missouri,” Dean says with passion. “He lost God and his family and everything he ever knew. He isn’t even the same creature he was before he met me. You saw the state he was in when he got here – he can’t handle being by himself! He needs me to give him... I don’t know, self-worth? A reason to live? How can I possibly live up to that? He needs God, not me! I’m not God!”

“He doesn’t think you’re God. He knows who you are and he sees you for what you are. He loves you because you’re you.”

“He shouldn’t be so obsessed with me. He needs a life too. I can’t be his everything.”

Missouri sighs. “Dean, there’s something I don’t think you know about him. I only know because I can read him. He’s _not like us._ He’s human – for the most part – but he sees the world differently than we do.”

Castiel frowns. What is she talking about?

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks, sounding just as puzzled.

“Look...” There’s a pause before she continues, as though she’s trying to shape her words correctly. “He used to be an angel. Something so beyond what we know I can’t even describe it. I can sense it in him and it scares me. It’s so powerful and _alien._ It’s terrifying, truly, and there’s only a tiny hint still there. I can’t comprehend what he must have been like when he was an angel.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Dean chuckles. “Mostly he was a dick.”

“What you need to remember is that he was brought up as an angel and he lived as an angel, so now he still acts as though he is, even if it’s on a subconscious level. That’s why he’s so fixated on you, Dean. He was created to worship someone, and that’s what he’s doing. He can’t help it. It’s like breathing to him. It doesn’t matter if that someone is God or if it’s you – he needs it. Frankly, if you hadn’t been there when God pulled His disappearing act, he would’ve gone to pieces much sooner. You saved him then, just as you can save him now.”

Castiel leans back against the wall. Missouri is right. He _was_ created to worship someone, and when that someone left him – both times – it had nearly killed him. He isn’t meant to be a whole person. He’s meant to bask in the glow of someone else. He hasn’t got any self-identity because he wasn’t created to have any. None of the angels were, not even the archangels, which is why everything turned so ugly when their Father vanished. All of them, every one, were left scared and alone and without guidance. No wonder they’d started fighting.

He’d found Dean instead.

“That’s one hell of a responsibility,” Dean tells Missouri miserably. “The only reason he’s able to function is because he’s with me? What the hell am I supposed to feel about that?”

“You feel honored, honey. It means you’re something special. And he didn’t start lovin’ you just because God went away – he loved you anyway. I’ve never felt anybody so full of love as that man. There’s so much of it I’m surprised it doesn’t pour out of his ears. Now the only thing that’s left to ask is this: what are you goin’ to do about it?”

There’s a long silence and Castiel finds that he’s holding his breath again. After what seems like forever, Dean says quietly, “I guess I need to stay.”

“Too right you need to stay. If you leave him again I’ll track you down myself and give you a good whupping.”

“You’re one scary lady, you know that?”

“Even your daddy was scared of me sometimes.” There’s a rustling noise, the sound of sheets and blankets being arranged, and then Missouri says, “Go back to sleep, honey. Perhaps after tonight your nightmares will go away. You had a hard choice to make but your conscience is clear now.”

Dean grunts something in reply but Castiel doesn’t linger to hear what it is. He pads back to his room as quietly as he can and sits on the end of his bed. He isn’t surprised when Missouri walks in after him.

“He’s an idiot,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Thank you,” Castiel tells her earnestly.

“Just you make sure you give him space if he needs it, okay? He’ll be fine otherwise. That boy needs you just as much as you need him, no matter what he says.”

“I know.”

Missouri walks over to him and bends to kiss him on the forehead. He closes his eyes, touched beyond belief at her easy way of dealing with him. “Don’t be scared of what I used to be,” he murmurs as she stands upright again. “I don’t know exactly what you see in my head, but it’s not a threat.”

“I know that, Castiel. And I’m sorry you lost your Father.”

“So am I.”

“You boys have so much in common. It makes me so sad, but I’m also happy you found each other. It’s almost like someone planned it. Maybe your Daddy hasn’t gone after all.” 

She strokes a hand through his hair and leaves the room, shutting the door gently behind her.

Castiel stares into the darkness for hours. He has the strangest feeling that Dean’s doing exactly the same thing a few doors away.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Everything goes to Hell the next day.

Dean won’t look at him as they eat breakfast, but Castiel recognizes the way he’s holding himself, that sudden stiffness and coldness, and knows he’s making himself the old Dean again. The one he used to call _fearless leader_ , the one he used to mock drunkenly even though he understood Dean was only trying to do the right thing, no matter how he achieved it – through intimidation or torture or even murder. 

One year ago today, Dean killed the one person he loved more than anybody else in the world. He’s making himself that man again so he can stand at Sam’s grave and not fall apart. 

“Are you sure you want to go alone?” Castiel asks him as he heads out the door, but Dean simply shakes his head and stalks down the path. Castiel watches as he drives away, then feels a small spike of fear. What if he doesn’t come back?

Missouri pats him on the shoulder. “He’ll be back, honey, don’t you worry.” 

“It’s hard to tell with him. He never seems to know himself what he’s going to do until he’s done it.”

“You gonna be okay here on your own till Dean gets back?”

He turns to smile at her. She looks smarter than usual in heels and a dress, ready for her visit to see her cousin. Without warning he pulls her into a hug that catches her totally by surprise. She laughs when he lets her go. “It’s been a long time since a handsome man held me like that,” she teases. “And right here on my doorstep and all! People will talk!”

“Let them.” Castiel plants a kiss on her cheek and steps back inside the house. “Give that little girl a hug from me.”

“I surely will.” 

She leaves and Castiel closes the door. He flops down on the sofa and idly flicks on the TV. It’s ten in the morning.

Dean doesn’t come back until ten that night.

 

~ ~ ~

 

At six Missouri calls to say she’s decided to spend the night in Eudora because her cousin needs help with the baby. She asks about Dean and Castiel lies and says he’s back and he’s fine. She doesn’t seem to notice. Either she’s distracted or she can’t read him over the phone, but either way Castiel is grateful. He’s worrying enough for the both of them.

When Dean finally does show up, Castiel meets him at the door with such a look of concern on his face that he’s met with laughter. 

“Jesus, Cas, you look like someone died! Guess I worried you, huh?”

“You’re drunk,” Castiel says, surprised. 

“As a skunk,” Dean nods, then claps him on the back as he pushes past him. “But I didn’t bring any of it home with me to tempt you. I know you’re a man of weak will and loose morals, Cas.” He chuckles. “But I did spill some beer on my jacket if you wanna suck it later.”

Castiel hasn’t seen Dean drunk in years, not since before Sam said yes. He frowns at him, but he’s hardly the one to judge his behavior, so he simply asks, “How did it go?”

Dean collapses on the sofa and looks around him. “Where’s Missouri?”

“Staying over with her family.”

Dean grins. “Good.” He lifts his feet up and places them on her coffee table. “She hates when I do this. Ha!”

“Dean.” He sits down beside him. “What happened?”

His companion rubs his nose, scowls and turns to face him. “You know what? It’s not as though Sam had the best grave ever. I made him this pathetic little wooden cross and I didn’t put anything on it except his name. It’s not as though it actually cost me any money or anything. It doesn’t mean shit, any of it.”

“What do you mean?” There’s a horrible feeling in his belly. He thinks he knows where Dean’s going with this.

“I left my amulet there, hanging off the cross. It’s been a year, I always thought someone would have taken it by now.”

“Had they?”

Dean laughs bitterly. “Oh yeah. The cross too.”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “What happened to his grave, Dean?”

“He was the Devil,” Dean says thoughtfully. “I’d probably want to desecrate his grave too, if I wasn’t, y’know, _related_ to his vessel.”

Castiel doesn’t speak. Dean lifts his gaze and looks him right in the eyes. There’s anger in there, cold, hard anger, the kind Castiel hasn’t seen for a year. “He wasn’t there,” Dean says. “Just a hole, nothing else. They’d graffitied every other grave in sight, apart from my mom’s. ‘Fuck you, Satan!’ Very catchy. I’m amazed they could even spell it properly.”

“Someone stole his body?” Castiel is aghast. 

“Nothing there,” Dean tells him bleakly. “Nada. Zip. Just earth and very skinny worms.” He looks away, shoulders sagging. “Some fuckers took my brother and I have no idea who.”

“Demons?”

“Didn’t look like the work of demons.” His voice breaks as he adds, “There was crap everywhere. I think it was human. Those sons of bitches...”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel rubs his eyes wearily. 

“I should’ve cremated him,” Dean says absently. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just couldn’t see him… burn. Not Sammy. It was easier to put him in a box. Easier on _me_. I wasn’t thinking straight… I should’ve done what I was supposed to do, but I watched Dad burn and I watched Bobby burn – hell, I even watched Adam burn. All my family. Every one of them. But I couldn’t do it to Sam. I just couldn’t.” He sniffs and looks down at his hands, which are filthy. There’s dirt under his nails. Castiel stares at it but doesn’t ask how it got there; he assumes Dean searched the cemetery for his brother’s body. No wonder he’d headed straight for a bar afterwards.

“He killed millions of people. I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked,” Dean says roughly, getting to his feet again. “I’m tired. I’m gonna go shower and hit the sack.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel isn’t the slightest bit surprised when Dean’s screams wake him up. 

He makes his way into his room and finds him curled up on the mattress, sobbing, his fists clenched tightly in the yellow sheets and his body soaked in sweat. Castiel doesn’t turn on the light or announce his presence in any way. He simply climbs onto the bed beside him and holds him tight, stroking a hand down his back soothingly, whispering soft words of comfort in his ear. 

Dean chokes and gasps. It takes him a few minutes to pull himself together, but he doesn’t move once he does. He shakes in Castiel’s arms but otherwise he remains perfectly still, letting Castiel hold him, twisting his hands feebly in the cotton sheets.

“You’re okay,” Castiel murmurs in his ear. Even though he’s had a shower, Dean still smells of beer. 

“I’m not,” Dean sniffs. “I can’t sleep. It won’t stop. He won’t let me. What I did to Sam... He’s torturing me for letting this happen to him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean.”

Dean snorts. “If you tell me now that ghosts aren’t real I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“ _Sam’s_ ghost isn’t real. It’s in your head. None of this is anything to do with him. You’ve got post-traumatic stress, Dean. Nightmares are just one part of it. They’ll pass.”

“It’s been a _year._ ”

“Give it time.” He kisses Dean on the top of his head. It’s a meaningless gesture, a simple offering of comfort, but Dean groans and twists free of his arms as soon as it happens, sitting up and staring at him in the moonlight.

“Stay.”

It’s not a request; it’s an order, given in that tone of voice Castiel heard so many times when they fought on missions together and tried to save the world. 

“Of course,” he replies, because he can never say no to Dean.

Dean lifts a trembling hand and strokes his cheek. “Kiss me.”

Castiel leans forward and does as he’s instructed. Dean surges towards him so hungrily that it shocks him but he adjusts his body, tensing under the force of him, allowing him access to his mouth and his tongue and even his breath. It’s not a tender kiss at all; it’s something else, something about desperation and urgency, possibly even power, but Castiel doesn’t object.

He also doesn’t object when Dean pushes him backwards onto the mattress, sliding on top of him without breaking their lip-lock once. Dean moans gutturally, fisting his hand in Castiel’s hair, holding it too tightly. Castiel winces but doesn’t react in any other way, waiting to see what’s going to happen here. He isn’t convinced Dean’s thinking clearly right now, but as long as he doesn’t go too far...

Dean pulls their lips apart with an obscene sound and breathes warm, damp air into Castiel’s left ear. “You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you, Cas?”

A hand moves down to Castiel’s groin and suddenly he’s impossibly, stupidly turned-on. Dean’s voice is husky and filled with yearning and his fingers... his fingers stroke him through his boxer shorts, sliding the material up and down provocatively. He gulps in a breath and answers shakily, “What do you want me to do?”

Dean smiles. “Fuck me.”

Castiel groans. He can’t. Dean’s drunk and he’s suffering. He doesn’t know what he’s saying or what it really means. Castiel won’t take advantage of him like this. He won’t.

“No,” he answers. “Not tonight. I can do other things, but I won’t do that.”

Dean snorts and releases his hair. He sits back and smirks at him. “Are you quoting Meatloaf at me?”

“W-what?”

“You’d do anything for love, but you won’t do that? I always thought that was a dirty lyric.”

“Dean, you’re not–”

Lips meet his and shut him up so forcefully that Castiel shudders. The fingers playing with his cock slide down under the fabric this time and he gasps as they twist and coil in his pubic hair, teasing patterns among the curls and making him break into a sweat. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Dean murmurs in his ear. “I want you inside me, Cas. I want to feel you.”

“Dean, no...”

“You want to make me happy, don’t you? Isn’t that what you live for?”

Castiel pushes him away angrily and sits up. “What is this, Dean?” he snaps. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

Dean scowls at him. “I want to have sex.”

“Great. So do I. But not like this. You’re still drunk and you’re freaked out from your nightmare and this doesn’t feel right, okay?”

“Oh, you felt alright to me,” Dean smirks.

“Can’t we start slowly?”

“I’m sorry, are you a _girl?_ ”

“Dean, this doesn’t feel right!” Castiel repeats.

Dean closes his mouth. He leans forward and kisses him again. Frustrated, Castiel sits still and lets him, then closes his eyes as Dean trails kisses down his neck and starts licking his nipples. “Does this feel right?” he mumbles against his skin.

Okay, so. Despite his principles Castiel has to admit it does. “It’s okay,” he replies, trying not to sound angry.

Very gently, Dean pushes him back down onto the mattress. He trails his tongue along the old knife wound on Castiel’s side and flicks it into his belly button. “How about this?”

“Bearable,” Castiel tells him, finding it difficult not to smile.

Dean lifts Castiel’s left arm and kisses his fingers. Castiel watches, entranced, as Dean kisses his palm, followed by his wrist. He tries to pull away when Dean’s lips fall on the crook of his elbow but Dean won’t let him go. A tongue trails down the old, healed trackmarks following his vein and the feel of it, the intimacy of it, the fact that Dean _made a point of doing it_ , makes him release a half-whimper.

“How does that feel?” Dean whispers, after he’s done the same to the other arm.

“Amazing,” Castiel replies. “Dean, look, are you sure you want to do this?”

There’s no reply. Hands pull down his underwear and Castiel gasps in shock as Dean takes him in his mouth; just like that, casual and confident, as though he’s done it a thousand times even though Castiel knows damn well he hasn’t. He throws his head back and moans; he likes it when people are rough with him and Dean is _rough_ , his actions determined and vigorous. He fists a hand around the base of the shaft and moves it up and down in time with his mouth, twisting with his fingers, dropping it every now and then to tease his testicles. He’s a little clumsy, true, but what he clearly lacks in experience he makes up for with tonguework that keeps stealing the breath from Castiel’s lungs. Hardly any time passes at all before he’s moaning in desperation, so hard he can’t concentrate on anything except the feel of _Dean_ around him.

And then Dean releases him, slides up his body, kisses him with a mouth that tastes of sweat, beer and the sharp tang of Castiel’s juices, before breathing into his mouth: “ _Fuck me._ ”

Castiel’s heart is pounding so fast he thinks he’s going to pass out. Helplessly, he nods. He’s so close to coming it suddenly seems like the greatest idea in the world, but as Dean licks his neck and rolls over so that he’s face-down on the pillow, common sense rears its ugly head and Castiel says, “I need a condom.”

“For fuck’s sake, Cas, like I give a damn! I’m not going to get pregnant!”

“I’ve been with–” He stops, not really willing or able to give a number, before continuing, “More people than you have, and I haven’t always been careful. I might have caught something.”

“Way to kill the mood, man. Look, I don’t care. Just get on in there.”

“No. You must have some condoms somewhere.”

With a curse, Dean leaps off the bed, stalks over to his bag, fiddles inside it for a few seconds and then throws a silver packet at him. “There. Now put it on and fuck me till I scream, cootie boy.”

Castiel rips open the foil and watches as Dean arranges himself on the bed again. “I don’t suppose you have any lube?” he asks timidly.

“Cas, it’s bad enough you’re wearing that.”

“But it’ll hurt.”

Dean laughs into his pillow; it’s not a nice sound. “Good.”

Castiel stares at the back of his head, suddenly realizing what’s going on here. “You want me to hurt you.”

“Cas, please shut your trap and get inside me.”

“You want me to punish you. You’re not even hard, are you?”

“ _Cas!_ ”

Castiel’s stomach flips. “I don’t want to do this.”

Dean is suddenly right in his face, hands on his shoulders. “Don’t you dare go all righteous on me, Castiel,” he growls, eyes flashing dangerously. “I saw what you did back at Camp Chitaqua! All those groupies you fucked while you were out of your tree! And I know what happened in Kansas City, too. Nicola told me, okay? You fucked so many women you can’t even remember the number. You’re no fucking angel, Cas, so don’t you pretend you are!”

Castiel stares at him miserably, shocked. 

Dean takes a deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself down. “I want you inside me, okay? Is that really so much to ask? Come on, look at you...” He reaches down and pulls gently at Castiel’s penis, making him shiver. “You want to come, don’t you? What does it matter if you come in my hand or inside me?”

“You want me to hurt you,” Castiel repeats. “I don’t want to.”

“Then go slow,” Dean murmurs, squeezing him tightly. “Take your time. But get inside me, please. I need you to. I need you, Cas. I really do. You want to make me happy, don’t you?”

Castiel’s eyelids flicker closed. Dean’s hand is so warm against his skin. He imagines how it would feel to be inside him, so hot and tight. Dean wants it. Why is he fighting?

“Okay,” he whispers.

But Dean doesn’t let him fuck him slowly. Dean moves against him urgently, crying out as he rears upwards again and again, making Castiel’s cock sink into him over and over and deeper and deeper. It feels so good Castiel can’t hold himself back. He fucks him as hard as Dean wants him to, fingers tracing patterns on his back and sweat dripping in his eyes, and when he finally comes he tries to pretend he doesn’t hear Dean make a sound that can only be a sob, even if it is muffled by his pillow.

Afterwards, Dean rolls away from him and curls into a ball. Castiel lies panting on his back until he feels blood trickle out of his nose and then he spends the next twenty minutes in the bathroom trying to get it to stop. When he walks back into Dean’s room, Dean’s asleep. Or pretending to be, anyway.

Castiel stares at him for a little while, disgusted with himself. He’s disgusted with everything: that those people stole Sam’s body, that Dean seeks comfort in pain, that he couldn’t stop himself from going along with him. 

He pads down the stairs, walks into the kitchen and grabs the bottle of whiskey from Missouri’s cupboard.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

“Oh, that’s just _perfect._ ”

Castiel lifts his head from the kitchen table, blinking in the sunlight. The room whirls a little before it settles down and he finds himself staring up at Dean, who’s standing with his hands on his hips on the other side of the table. He’s staring at the empty bottle of whiskey between them and the look on his face is anything but happy.

“Morning,” Castiel greets him blearily. “Sleep well?”

“I thought you were off the booze?”

Castiel sniffs and wipes drool from his chin. He has a headache but he’s still too drunk for the hangover to have kicked in properly; maybe that’s why he laughs at Dean’s words. “I was. I must have tripped and fallen and it just poured into my mouth on its own.”

Dean picks up the bottle and throws it in the trash. “I hate you like this,” he grunts.

“I remember.” Castiel giggles, surprising himself. “I hate me like this, too, but whaddya know? Here I am. Like this.” He leans back in the chair, stretching his arms, easing out the kinks and creases from spending half the night asleep face-down on the table.

“You were doing so well,” Dean says, sounding a little sad. “I thought you were past this.”

Castiel snorts. “Newsflash for you, Dean: I’m an alcoholic. I don’t ever get past this. And you know what? I’m a drug addict, too! And I’m fairly certain I’m a sexaholic as well, just for good measure. I’ve got all the fun stuff covered. My life’s just one big party.”

Dean studies him for a few moments, then scrubs a hand through his hair. He pulls out a chair and sits down, wincing a little from his actions the night before. The look of pain on his face makes Castiel snort out a laugh. He’s always giggly when he’s drunk, even when things aren’t funny. It used to drive Dean mad back at the camp.

“This is my fault, isn’t it?”

“Totally,” Castiel nods, raising his empty glass to him.

Dean sighs. “I’m sorry. After all this time spent dancing around each other, I guess you were expecting something a little less... _weird_ for our first time.”

“Amen to that,” Castiel agrees, nodding again.

“You could have said no, you know.”

Castiel shrugs. “Yes, I could have. But apparently I can’t resist you.” He chuckles. “Sometimes I feel like your father.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, nice imagery, Cas. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Whenever you feel you’ve done something wrong, you want to be punished. You can’t handle it on your own so you want Daddy to take charge.” He grins bitterly. “It’s all very Freudian if you ask me.”

Dean’s face has flushed. His eyes are hard as he leans forward and growls, “I asked you to fuck me, Cas, not spank me over your knee. It’s just sex. It’s different.”

“No, it’s not. You wanted me to hurt you. You wanted to be punished. You wanted to feel like you were atoning for Sam’s death.” He looks down at the glass in his hand and sighs. “How the hell is that supposed to make me feel? I didn’t want to do it. I don’t want to be a person who has to hurt you to make you feel better.”

Dean spreads his hands, annoyed. “Then why the hell didn’t you just leave? You’ve got free will these days, in case it escaped your attention!”

“Don’t you get it? Haven’t you figured it out by now, after all this time? I can’t say no to you, Dean. I’ve never been able to say no to you. That’s why I’m _here_. That’s why _we’re_ here. It’s all about you! You tell me what to do and I do it. I can’t help myself. If you’re happy, I’m happy. If you’re miserable...” He waves his glass in the air. “I’m miserable. I can’t help it, Dean. It’s just how it is.”

Dean’s eyes are wide. He swallows before replying gruffly, “That’s not cool, Cas. Seriously. That’s... scary. You need to live your own life, not do everything I tell you to do.”

Castiel rubs his eyes. “I know, I know. The logical part of my brain tells me to get the hell out of here and find another life. But if I do that...” He gives Dean a meaningful look. “You’ll find other ways to punish yourself. And so will I.”

Dean opens his mouth to say something but seems to think better of it. Castiel narrows his eyes as he watches him struggle with himself, clearly trying to rein in his anger. It’s not a natural thing for Dean to do and it looks difficult, but eventually he lowers his head and stares at his knees. When he speaks, his voice is calm.

“I guess you know me pretty well, huh?”

“Like the back of my hand.” Castiel grunts. “Which has only been my hand for a few years, admittedly, but I do know it.”

Dean nods. He leans back in his chair, suppressing another wince, only this time it doesn’t make Castiel laugh. “How about we promise each other something?” he says.

Castiel looks at him quizzically. “What?”

“If I don’t drink any more, you stop too.”

“Deal.”

“And the next time I feel...” Dean stops, licking his lips, “...the way I felt last night, I’ll talk to you instead of trying to get you to do something you don’t want to do.”

“Double deal.”

Dean smiles at him. It’s a little forced, possibly even a little false, but it’s good enough for Castiel. He smiles back.

“Thanks for keeping your head together last night,” Dean says awkwardly, his face falling. “With the... protection and everything.”

Castiel looks down at the table. “I probably need to get tested,” he mutters. “I was a bit out of control for a while.”

“How many women did you sleep with, anyway?” Dean asks him. 

Castiel glances up and right into his eyes. There’s nothing in there but curiosity, but suddenly he feels guilty. “Too many,” he replies, blushing. “Can we change the subject?”

“I haven’t slept with a woman for a year and two days,” Dean says unexpectedly, and he looks away.

Castiel feels himself sobering up. “That’s a long time. Is that the longest you’ve ever gone without?”

“Hell excepted, yeah.” Dean’s face twitches. “Cas, I should probably tell you something, but it’s a bit embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than the way we behaved last night?” Castiel shakes his head. “I dread to think what you’re about to say.”

Dean swallows nervously. “I, uh, can’t. You know. Have sex.”

Castiel frowns at him. “Huh?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I can’t get it up, okay?”

There’s a pause. “Oh,” Castiel says eventually. “Have you... is there any way... have you seen a doctor?”

“I don’t need a doctor, Cas. It’s not a physical thing. It’s in my head.” Dean sighs. “It’s like the nightmares. It’s stress or something, I don’t know. But there’s nothing there at all. Nothing. Not even last night, when I was kissing you and you were making all those noises... fuck, that was hot, but it’s like my dick was thinking about Hillary Clinton or something.”

“What a lovely image.” Castiel thinks for a moment before leaning forward and taking his hand, threading his fingers through Dean’s. “It’ll get better, you know, just like your nightmares. You’ve got me now. Everything’s over. Let’s get the hell out of here tomorrow and start hunting again, just like old times. We’ll make a good team.”

Dean tilts his head and studies him. “I guess we will,” he says, and they kiss until Dean pulls away and licks his lips. “You have whiskey breath, you lush. Go clean your teeth and get some sleep.”

It turns out that Castiel’s legs are a lot drunker than his head, so Dean has to help him up the stairs.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

When Castiel wakes up he’s alone in the house. Dean isn’t there, but for the first time in a year he doesn’t worry about being left behind. He pads downstairs with a hand resting on his throbbing skull and finds a note on the kitchen table that reads, _Gone to the cemetery to do some clearing up. Be back before dark. Eat something, you moron._

He makes himself a bacon roll and is just swallowing the last mouthful when Missouri arrives home. She walks into the kitchen, takes one look at him, glances over at the trash can with the bottle poking out of the top and says primly, “Are you happy with yourself?”

“Hello to you, too,” Castiel says.

She stares at him for a few moments and smiles. “So he’s stopped being a jackass, has he?”

“Oh, he’s still a jackass,” Castiel admits. “But he’s my jackass.”

“That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

“We’ve decided to leave tomorrow. I hope that’s not too sudden or anything.”

Missouri pats him on the arm. “Don’t be foolish, honey. All I wanted was to see you two figure out what you wanted. If you’ve done that, you’re both strong enough to hit the road again.”

“I think we have. And I think we are.” 

“That’s wonderful. Now…” She reaches into her bag and pulls out her cellphone. “Take a look at baby Mary. Isn’t she beautiful?”

They talk for a little while before Missouri starts cleaning up the kitchen and preparing a meal. Castiel finds himself standing at the back door and staring at the garden, lost in thought. After a while Missouri says gently, “What is it, Castiel? Did you want to ask me something?”

He sighs and turns to her. “You said you could still feel some angel inside me.”

She nods. “It’s there.”

“How much?”

Missouri shrugs. “I’d reckon about a thimble-full. It’s tiny, but it’s mighty strong.”

“Why can’t I feel it?”

She runs a hand down his cheek. “You don’t have to. It’s not for you to feel. It’s there so that God can call on you if He needs to.”

Castiel frowns. “He... He’s not up there, Missouri.”

“No, honey, He’s not.” She smiles and takes his hand, placing it over her heart, not caring in the slightest that he has to touch her breast to do so. “He’s here,” she says, then places the hand over Castiel’s heart. “And He’s here.”

“You really think so, huh?”

Missouri grins at him. “Honey, I know so.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

They leave the next day with Tupperware containers full of more pie than two men could ever eat in a lifetime – though Dean gives it his best shot, of course – and a heaviness in their hearts at leaving Missouri behind. Castiel waves until they reach the end of the block, then twists in his seat and waves some more as they turn. Missouri waves back and doesn’t move from her doorstep as they lose sight of her. Castiel thinks he’ll be seeing her smile in his mind for a long time to come.

“Big kid,” Dean sniffs at him as he settles back in his seat, but his eyes look a little misty for a while and Castiel smiles to himself.

They actually drive past the cemetery on their way out of town. Dean doesn’t say a word. He’d returned the night before after cleaning up the graffiti, filling in the grave and clearing away all the other mess that had been left there, but he hadn’t found Sam’s body. It’s obvious it’s a lost cause. It was probably taken months ago. The trail’s too cold to follow and Dean will just have to live with that. Castiel tries not to look at him as the gates of the graveyard go by, remembering how he’d knelt at Sam’s grave seven months beforehand and said a prayer for him to a God he knew wasn’t there. Poor Sam. He wasn’t even allowed peace in death, and Castiel feels the pain almost as keenly as Dean does.

They argue the moment they hit the state of Missouri. 

Of course they do. 

“We can’t hunt straight off, Cas!” Dean tells him, incredulous, as they speed down a surprisingly busy Interstate 70 in the rain.

“I don’t get what your problem is!” Castiel exclaims, spreading his hands in front of him.

“You’re not well enough, that’s what my problem is, dumbass. Just a couple of weeks ago a _Reaper_ came to get you and now you want to go hand-to-hand with a demon? Are you trying to kill yourself? Still?”

Castiel folds his arms defiantly. “I don’t want to go hand-to-hand with a demon, Dean. I just want to do what I can. I don’t know – research, backing you up, anything. I want to be useful. I know I’m not going to be any use in a fight until I’ve got the rest of my strength back. I’m not stupid.”

“It’s too risky. I know what you’re like, Cas. You’ll come rushing after me at the first sign of danger and you’ll get yourself killed.”

“So I’m supposed to sit in the car and wait like a good little sidekick?” Castiel grumbles, glaring at him.

“Yes.” Dean purses his lips. “And you’re totally Robin.”

“Robin who?”

“Jesus, Cas – you’ve been hanging around with me for six years now and you don’t even get my Batman references?”

“Dean, it’ll take me sixty years to get all your damn references.”

“Just remember that I’m Batman,” Dean says in a deep voice.

“What’s wrong with your throat?”

Dean sighs. “I was pretending to be Christian Bale. Look, shut up and get out the map, would you? I haven’t got a clue where we’re going.”

They drive into Indiana and stop for the night at a motel that’s the first one Castiel’s seen in months that’s actually open and devoid of the homeless. Indiana suffered several almost-cataclysmic earthquakes back in 2011 but it seems to have recovered; they pass a lot of building work as they travel and the skyline of Indianapolis is a mess of cranes and half-built towers. It’s heartening to see so much industriousness, though Castiel remembers watching a news report a few nights ago which seemed to think the US government’s rehabilitation program was going to bankrupt the whole of North America. For every silver lining there seemed to be another gray cloud waiting just around the corner.

They pull up at the motel and Dean looks at him quizzically before he gets out of the car. “So what are we doing tonight, then?”

“What do you mean?”

Dean shrugs. “One bed or two?”

“Oh.” Castiel considers it before answering, “One. Although the guy at the desk might not approve.”

“He lived through the apocalypse. I’m sure he’s got better things to worry about.”

Castiel thinks back to Billy’s disgust after he’d slept with Ian and scowls. “I’m not sure everybody’s that enlightened, even after surviving the end of the world.”

Dean shoots him a puzzled look but doesn’t say anything. He gets the room and they unload the car together. It’s a battered old Toyota, something Dean wouldn’t have been seen dead in a few years beforehand, but he’s never once complained about it. Castiel finds himself wondering if the moment Dean had started to become the hardass soldier he’d needed to be to take down Lucifer had begun when he’d given up his beloved Chevrolet in order that he could drive a car that better suited his new life. That Impala had been as much a member of his family as Sam or Bobby. Castiel hasn’t thought about it in years, but it’s probably true. Dean gave up pieces of himself in chunks, right up until Sam said yes, and then he was totally gone. In a way, Dean’s transformation from Dean to soldier-Dean had matched the transformation of Castiel from angel to human.

“Holy cow, they’ve got porn,” are Dean’s first words as they walk into the room. He picks up the card beside the TV, studies it for a moment and then puts it down again. “For all the good it’ll do me.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything. He throws a container full of apricot pie at Dean instead. “Here, eat,” he orders him. “Maybe it’ll get your pecker up.”

Dean snorts and sits down on the bed. Castiel sits at the table. They eat and gaze around the room and then gaze at each other.

“Which side of the bed do you want?” Dean asks through a mouthful of pie.

“Whichever side you’re on.”

Dean grins. “I don’t think we’re gonna get much sleep tonight.”

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Strangely enough, they do. Castiel’s exhausted after his first day out of the house and Dean’s _always_ tired, so they kiss for a little while and Castiel traces his fingers around his partner’s body before suddenly Dean’s snoring and Castiel’s eyelids are drooping too. He puts his head on his companion’s chest and sleeps soundly, more comfortable than he’s ever been in his life, and when they both awaken the next morning Dean is so shocked to discover he slept an entire night through that he refuses to let Castiel get out of bed.

“It was your fault,” he tells him, as Castiel protests that he needs a drink. “I haven’t had a night like that for so long I can’t even remember. You’re like a good luck charm or something.”

“I think you just like to snuggle,” Castiel sighs, trying to reach the bottle of water on the bedside table. Dean slaps his hand away and picks it up for him. He unscrews the top and passes it over.

Castiel wrinkles his nose in annoyance. “I know you think I’m pretty pathetic right now, Dean, but I am capable of taking the cap off a water bottle.” He takes a swig and offers it to his companion, who drinks a little and places it on the table.

“Just making sure you don’t strain yourself,” Dean says smugly.

Castiel wriggles until he’s lying beside him and they’re facing each other, intersecting his legs with Dean’s under the covers. “You can stop looking after me now, you know. I really am better.”

Dean’s expression darkens a little. “I know. But you’ve got to give me a bit of leeway here, Cas. You were pretty sick and it scared me. It’s kind of hard to forget.”

“Forget it, okay? I’m fine now.”

“Cas...” Dean looks away with a sigh. 

Castiel reaches up and strokes his jaw. “What?”

Dean seems to gather himself together before he speaks. “When Chuck told me you were sick, I nearly killed myself getting down to see you. I was so far away and all I could think was that you’d die before I could get there. It was awful. I’ve never known a journey take so long in my life.”

“You made it, though,” Castiel reassures him.

Dean shakes his head. “When I got there and I saw you lying on that bed... you were having a seizure as I walked in the door, and it was fucking terrifying, you have no idea. Your nose was bleeding and you were choking on some of the blood and you looked so _thin_ I almost didn’t believe it was you, thought they’d g-got the wrong person, but then you stopped convulsing and started s-screaming and I recognized your v-voice...”

“Shhh, Dean. It’s okay.” He leans over and kisses him softly on the lips, alarmed at his stuttering. “It’s over now, it’s okay.”

Dean lifts a hand and curls it in his hair, staring into this eyes with such fierceness Castiel suddenly feels a little scared. “Don’t you ever go anywhere, Cas,” he demands. “Don’t you ever, ever leave me, you got that?”

“I could say the same to you.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wild horses, Cas. Wild horses.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Tell me that’s not another Batman reference.”

“They couldn’t drag me away from you.” Dean smiles. “How can you know so much and know so little, all at once?”

“You stick to your comic book quotes and your song lyrics and your movie comparisons,” Castiel tells him indulgently, planting a kiss on each side of his mouth. “I’ll be happy knowing every language on the planet and the behavior of every living creature down to the smallest protozoa and the best way to use the Jet Stream to cross an ocean on a pair of wings.”

“Show off,” Dean scolds him, and then they’re kissing lazily, basking in the fact they’re finally with each other. They kiss slowly and languidly, stopping to stare into each other’s eyes and to tangle fingers in hair, or to rub noses and smile, or to trace the contours of the other’s face with fingers that soon become damp from kisses. After a while Castiel lowers his hand under the covers and slides his palm across Dean’s crotch, setting up a rhythm that Dean matches with kisses and thrusts from his tongue, but no matter how diligently his fingers work, absolutely nothing happens.

“Told you,” Dean says disconsolately. “You might as well give up.”

“Wild horses, Dean,” Castiel smiles. “Wild horses.”

 

~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

_7\. On the road_

 

For the first few weeks, Dean hunts and Castiel doesn’t. 

He hates it. He hates being weak and he hates that Dean is out there getting himself in danger without anybody to back him up. He argues and pleads, pointing out that he doesn’t _need_ to be fully recovered to shoot a shotgun or recite an exorcism, but Dean doesn’t care. He gives him the slip time and again, leaving him in the car or in a motel room or simply standing in the street, and Castiel worries and paces until he comes back, usually with a cocky smile on his lips and a few skinned knuckles but nothing more serious. It’s like torture but Dean refuses to back down.

Thankfully, it doesn’t last forever. As the weeks go by Castiel can feel himself getting stronger as his body fills out with regular, healthy meals. He starts to train, doing exercises to help build up some muscle tone and stamina, and Dean watches him with faint amusement as he establishes a routine and sticks to it. Dean doesn’t seem to need to do anything to stay in shape despite all the crap he eats, but Castiel’s leaner and has to work at it in order to feel even remotely like he could handle himself in a fight.

The first time he does, stabbing a demon in Chesapeake after it pins Dean to the ground and tries to throttle him, Dean claps him on the back and looks so proud Castiel realizes he’d completely forgotten that he’d once been a soldier. Dean sees him as a weakling, not even a hunter, someone he has to protect who only occasionally shows his claws. It’s demeaning but he doesn’t say anything. It’s not Dean’s fault. It’s not as though Castiel’s been doing anything to convince him otherwise for the past few years, and the knowledge makes him train harder.

They get on okay. They still bicker and test each other’s limits – that hasn’t changed since the night they met – but they’re comfortable in each other’s company, and that’s good. Sometimes Dean slips and calls Castiel _Sam_ but hey, it’s only to be expected; Dean hasn’t spent much time with anybody but his brother. He even laughs it off after a while, joking that Castiel will be as big as Sam if he doesn’t stop training, but at night he moans his brother’s name in his sleep and Castiel has to wake him before he starts to scream.

The nightmares come a few times a week. They’ve died down enough for Dean to stop looking so tired but they’re still a weight he has to bear, and Castiel can only help him so much. Dean does dream less when they fall asleep wrapped up in each other but it’s not a cure, not by any means. Dean still needs more time. He was Sam’s brother for a lifetime and he killed him in the space of a few seconds. It’s hard to bounce back from something like that.

Castiel can’t sleep some nights, too, but for different reasons. Some nights he finds himself battling with everything he has to ignore the cravings shaking his body. Some nights all he wants is to climb out of bed, get dressed and go hit a bar. Some nights he’ll think over the events of the day and remember where he saw kids selling on corners and wonder if he can drive out to buy what he needs and back again without Dean waking up in between. He’ll wonder and pine but he’ll never actually do anything. Instead he’ll watch the way Dean’s eyes roll under his eyelids, the soft rise and fall of his chest; how his fingers twitch when he dreams and he instinctively curls his body around Castiel’s, even when he’s dead to the world, as though he wants to _protect_. 

As hard as it is for Castiel to deal with his old addictions, he’s got a better one now.

He gets himself tested for every disease he can think of while they’re in Maryland and calls a couple of weeks later from the other side of the country to find out his results. Somehow, he’s clean. The news amazes him. Everything he’s done, all those needles he’s shared, all the sex and the sleaze and he came out of it as though none of it happened. No hepatitis, no HIV, no sexually transmitted diseases... _lucky_ doesn’t even cover it. He’s more baffled than pleased. 

Dean, however, is thrilled. 

“I am _so glad_ I don’t have to wash my hands after touching you any more,” he teases, as Castiel is still processing the good news.

“You didn’t have to wash your hands–” Castiel starts automatically, before realizing that his companion is joking. “Oh, eat me,” he finishes, somewhat distracted.

Dean’s grin is tremendous. “I can do that now!”

Castiel sighs. “I don’t get it.”

“No, you don’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Now you can get it all the time. And I’m the perfect man to _give_ it.”

Dean’s lack of arousal in bed doesn’t stop his mouth from spewing all its usual dirty talk, but Castiel’s used to it by now. “I don’t get why I’m clean,” he clarifies, looking up at Dean seriously. “There’s no way that’s possible. All those years during the apocalypse and those months in Kansas City – I can’t even remember half the things I did, but I know they were bad.”

Dean shrugs. “So you dodged a bullet. Don’t obsess over it, Cas.”

“Nobody behaves like that and gets away scot-free, Dean.”

“You think you got away scot-free?” Dean rolls his eyes and drops down to sit beside him on the bed. “You were mind-raped by a demon, went through the kind of withdrawal that would’ve killed most people, nearly died of a brain hemorrhage and only got saved at the last second by divine intervention. That’s not ‘scot-free’. That’s all the punishment you needed for how you behaved, Cas, if that’s what you’re getting at here.”

Castiel grimaces. “Well, if you put it like that...”

“I’d rather put it somewhere else,” Dean says pointedly, his hand falling to Castiel’s crotch. “Now I know you’re not a germ factory, _you_ can put it anywhere you want.”

“Idiot,” Castiel says somberly.

“Pain in the ass,” Dean replies quickly, shoving him onto the bed and climbing on top of him. “Or pain in _my_ ass, if I want to be precise...”

Castiel tries, as always, to make Dean hard. As always, nothing happens. Dean’s used to it by now but it doesn’t mean he likes it and he takes out his frustration on Castiel. Some nights Dean seems determined to make him come so many times Castiel has to tell him to stop before it starts to hurt. Dean’s hands, lips and tongue have traced every centimeter of his skin; he’s made him writhe and sigh in pleasure so many times Castiel couldn’t ever count them. Dean’s done everything he could possibly do without actually _doing_ him, but it’s never enough.

Castiel desperately wants Dean to be happy even though he can’t find release. After some exploration he discovers he can reduce Dean to a quivering mess by massaging his prostate gland – he’s never been so grateful for all that knowledge of human anatomy stored up in his brain – and so that becomes their routine. Every time they have sex Dean takes care of Castiel first and then he gets finger-fucked for as long as he can stand it, usually until he’s almost incoherent. But he still doesn’t climax, and no matter how much he loves everything Castiel does to him, it’s still _never enough._

“Our sex life is pretty fucked-up, isn’t it?” Dean says to him afterwards, as they lie damp and panting amidst a mess of motel sheets.

Castiel snorts. “Our _lives_ are pretty fucked-up. I think the sex is the least fucked-up out of all it.”

Dean’s quiet for a little while before he asks, “Did you ever screw a guy before you did me?”

“No,” Castiel answers, a little too quickly. 

Dean twists his head to look at him. “Did you ever let yourself get screwed?”

Castiel frowns up at the ceiling, remembering that night with Ian. Only it hadn’t been Ian at all. 

“I think...” He stops, not sure how to say it.

Dean sits up and leans on his elbow, staring down at him quizzically. “What? Come on, you can tell me. I’m hardly going to judge you, Cas.”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “I think I was... kind of raped. By a demon.”

Dean blinks at him for a few moments before sitting up fully. “Seriously?”

“I didn’t know it was a demon, I thought it was someone I knew. And I was so out of my head I just let it happen. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, but I didn’t really like it, and I’ve thought about it since and... and I know I wouldn’t have said yes if I’d been sober. It wasn’t really rape, but...” 

He runs out of words, but Dean’s got more than enough to replace them. “Holy shit, Cas. You should’ve said something. That’s gotta be eating you up inside! Did he hurt you? Were you okay?”

“I was fine. It was the night before the demon possessed me, so it’s not like I had time to dwell on it.” He reads the look of pity on Dean’s face and decides he needs to tell him the whole story, much as it’ll nearly kill him. “That’s not all it did, Dean.” 

He tells him about the women the demon had possessed, about all the things he’d done to them without knowing they were being coerced. His voice breaks in places but he gets through the story and then Dean draws him into a hug that’s both comforting and strangely masculine.

“You didn’t know, okay? Don’t you dare torture yourself over this, Cas. You didn’t know.”

“It said it erased their minds. I hope they can’t remember, Dean. What if they remember? And what if... what if I got them pregnant? I was so high I just assumed they were taking precautions, but what if they weren’t? They could have been virgins or not taking the pill... oh, God, what did I do to them?”

Dean squeezes him tighter and then sits back, holding him by the arms and staring into his eyes. “There’s nothing you could have done, you got that? Whatever happened to those women, at least they’re alive. That son of a bitch didn’t say it killed them, did it?”

“No.”

“Right. Then stop freaking out. It was sick and it was fucked-up but you can’t blame yourself for something a demon did.”

Castiel nods and looks away, but inside he knows if he’d only been a little stronger, it wouldn’t have happened. He’d sunk so low he’d been willing to fuck anything that moved. If he’d only shown some restraint...

“You didn’t ask me.”

He frowns and turns back to Dean. “What?”

“You didn’t ask me if I’d ever slept with a guy before.”

Castiel manages to form a half-smile, appreciating the attempt to change the subject. “Did you ever sleep with a guy before me?”

Dean’s face is desperately, perfectly serious. 

“No,” he says. “You’re my first. And you’re damn well going to be my last because you’re all I’ll ever need.”

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

They move from town to town and city to city hunting anything they can find, and there’s a lot to find. There are more spirits than there were before Lucifer rose, thousands more, in fact, because so many people died in terrible ways and with anger burning in their souls. There are more vampires than Dean says he can ever remember seeing and werewolf numbers have increased too. Demons are everywhere, keeping their heads low because the general population recognize the signs now and know how to deal with them. Salt has become as important as money and Castiel notices a lot of people wear small bottles of holy water on chains around their necks. 

He also notices Bibles. They’re everywhere. Churches are full. Some people, especially down South, say “Praise Jesus” and “Thank you, God” in every sentence, as though by acknowledging them they’ll somehow make them come back. Castiel knows it doesn’t work like that, but it brings them peace and so he feels he should allow them their illusions.

He helps Dean fight so many different creatures he starts to lose track. He knows them all, of course: the shtriga and the rougarou, the wendigo and the tulpa – all of them have existed on Earth for as long as he’s lived, and he’s always wondered why his Father saw fit to create them. Or perhaps He didn’t. Perhaps they simply _became_ on their own, as offshoots of the Lord’s real creations that kept growing in number, like the weeds sprouting so tenaciously in Missouri’s flowerbeds.

They call Missouri every few weeks and keep her posted on their progress. Castiel also finally feels confident enough to call Chuck and apologizes for shutting him out of his life for the past few months, but Chuck, as ever, is sanguine about it and tells him not to worry.

It turns out that he missed Chuck’s wedding, which makes Castiel feel like a shitty friend, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

“We got married on Miami Beach,” Chuck tells him warmly, “the day they opened it again after they’d finally finished clearing up all the hurricane damage. It was beautiful, man. I wish you’d been there. I had tears in my eyes when we said our vows – can you believe that? I’m such a sap. I don’t know what that woman’s done to me, man.”

Castiel looks over at Dean, who scowling at the new laptop he’s just bought and trying to figure out how to get the internet working. He’s poking at the keyboard like it’s going to give him an electric shock with one hand and running the other hand through his hair. Blond spikes shoot in every direction, making him look like he actually has had a shock. It’s bafflingly adorable.

“I don’t know what Dean’s done to me, either,” Castiel murmurs.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ll have to come and visit, Cas. You won’t believe our house. I got an advance for the next movie and they haven’t even finished this one yet. Hollywood’s just throwing money at me and all I have to do is give them an outline – I don’t type a single word of the script. It’s the best job in the world!”

Castiel smiles; he hasn’t thought about the Winchester movies for a while now. “I hope you’re writing nice things about us.”

“Of course I am. All total bullshit, of course, but they don’t know that. And hey, you’re in the next one, did you know that?”

“Am I being played by Morgan Freeman?”

“They never found him, poor bastard. No, your character’s getting a bit of a twist.”

“A twist?”

Chuck almost giggles as he speaks. “Lindsay Lohan.”

“Who’s he?”

There’s a pause before Chuck says in an amused voice, “Just ask Dean. He’ll fill you in. Uh, look, Cas... I’m glad you called, by the way. I had the weirdest dream the other night and you were in it.”

That makes Castiel sit up straight. “What happened?”

Chuck’s voice is a little nervous, the way he always gets when he talks about his visions. If this was a vision, of course. “It was pretty disjointed, like I wasn’t getting the whole thing. I dunno, maybe it was just an ordinary dream. I kind of forget what they’re like. But I remember there was bad weather and you were wet, and Dean was with you and you were running. It was noisy, too, like wind or something. That’s, uh, all I’ve got. After that I was feeding Jell-o to the Olsen twins and it got really twisted.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know what to think about that.”

“Yeah, I’m a married man and everything. It freaked me out, too.”

“I meant your other dream. Did you get any kind of idea where we were?”

“Zilch.”

“Was the weather important?”

“What am I, a weatherman? How the hell should I know? I don’t even know if it was a vision or if I was just dreaming it was raining because it was raining outside while I was sleeping. Then again, it hasn’t rained this week, so maybe not. Florida’s crazy hot, you know that? I’ve been bright red for months now.”

He talks some more but Castiel isn’t really listening. He remembers the last time Chuck had told him his dream, and of how it had led to him going to that beach and finding Dean. He wonders what he’s supposed to do with this knowledge now. Something happened during a rainstorm that made them both run? It was hardly earth-shattering stuff. They could have just been running to get clear of the shower. Was Chuck just dreaming randomly, or did it have some kind of meaning?

“So how are you doing?” Chuck asks him.

Castiel focuses on the voice on the other end of the phone. “Pretty good. Really good, actually.”

“No drinking?”

“None.”

“That is good. I’m pleased you hooked up with Dean. It’s not good to be alone these days.”

Castiel frowns. “‘Hooked up with him’?” he repeats, before he’s thought about what he’s saying. 

“Whoa, man. I don’t mean like _that_. I just mean that you found each other and you’re hanging out.”

Dean’s lifted his head and is looking over at him, an unreadable look on his face. Castiel has no idea if Dean wants him to tell Chuck what’s going on between them, so he doesn’t. “Yes,” he says. “We’re just hanging out.”

“That’s cool. How’s he doing?”

Castiel hands the cell over to Dean and shuts himself in the bathroom to let them talk in private. He stares at his face in the mirror, brushing hair out of his eyes and marveling at how his cheeks have filled out over the last two months. He looks a damn sight better than he did. Sometimes he even looks happy when he sees himself. It’s weird.

He wonders what Chuck will say when he finds out that he and Dean are more than just hunting partners. That, in turn, gets him wondering how many years they can live this life before one of them gets killed by something they’re hunting. Or falls under a bus. Or has a heart attack. Or slips and cracks their head on some concrete. There are so many ways to die Castiel can’t even think about it without feeling nauseous, and underneath it all there’s the knowledge that he doesn’t know what will wait for him in the afterlife. 

Dean’s going to Heaven. Castiel knows that. Even after the way he’d acted at the end with the torture and that steely, scary determination, his soul was still pure. And he’d killed Lucifer. He has a reward waiting for him. 

Castiel is happy for him. He just wishes he could be happy for himself.

There’s a bark of laughter from the next room. “LiLo? _Seriously?_ ” Dean yelps, and Castiel ponders what the hell could be so funny about such a meaningless word.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Three weeks later they’re in Wichita hunting a spirit in a half-demolished farmhouse when Castiel sneezes.

He’s seen people sneeze hundreds of times but for some inexplicable reason he’s never, ever sneezed himself. The total unexpectedness of it shocks him; the way it’s an impulse he doesn’t have the time to fight, the sound of it, the fact it makes his head whiplash forward and back again. He’s just blinking and figuring out what happened when the spirit shoves him firmly in the back and he hits the floor in a heap, only just thinking to turn his head to the side so he doesn’t break his nose on the wooden floorboards.

“Sayonara, Suzy,” Dean shouts somewhere above his head, and the ghost of Susan Tyrell screams and disintegrates as he drops the flaming locks of her hair to the floor. A strange ripple moves through the room as her presence untangles itself from their reality and leaves; the temperature rises several degrees a few seconds later.

“You okay?” Dean asks, reaching down to help him up. Castiel nods and climbs stiffly to his feet, wiping down his jeans.

“I sneezed,” he confesses, feeling a bit foolish. “It threw me. I’ve never sneezed before.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “No way. Seriously? Never?”

“I would have remembered,” Castiel shrugs.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “I’ve seen you snort coke, dude. Are you honestly telling me you did all that and it never once made you sneeze?”

“No.” Castiel feels a tickle building and he freezes. “I think it’s going to happen a–”

He makes so much noise this time that it startles him and Dean both. He lifts his head again and sniffs, feeling a little uncomfortable.

“Okay, either you’re just reacting to the dust in here or you’re coming down with a cold.”

“I’ve never had a cold.”

Dean grins with just a little too much gusto. “Oh, you’ll love it. They’re a total blast.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

A cold is most definitely _not_ a blast.

By the next morning Castiel is sneezing so much he keeps getting nosebleeds and, as he soon discovers, sneezes combined with nosebleeds can be pretty messy. A few hours later he runs out of tissues in the car, much to Dean’s dismay, and after a small argument they give up on the day’s travel and pull up at a motel. The room they’re given is so grubby and cheerless it makes Castiel feel worse the second he sets foot through the door.

“How do you cope with all this crap?” he moans, throwing himself on the lumpy single bed as Dean unpacks their things. “How do you get through life knowing there are so many diseases out there that can make you feel like this without any warning?”

“Come on, Cas. Suck it up and deal. It’s just a cold.”

“It makes my nose bleed,” Castiel says petulantly, trying to elicit some sympathy.

“Your nose hasn’t been right since we left Kansas. You’ve got a weak vein in there or something, I don’t know. I’m not a freakin’ nose doctor. But it’s not going to kill you, man, so stop complaining.”

Castiel sniffs and lies back on the pillow. “My nose won’t stop running and I don’t know if it’s blood or mucus.”

Dean flinches. “Please don’t say the word ‘mucus’ when I’m about to eat, Cas. Speaking of which, did you want anything?”

“Not hungry.” Castiel gazes up at the watermarked ceiling and closes his eyes. He feels like crap, but he knows it’s just a cold. Colds aren’t that bad. Everybody gets them. He shouldn’t be such a wuss.

“My throat hurts,” he whines, after he decides to be a wuss after all.

Dean mumbles something unintelligible but possibly insulting under his breath before looking across at him and smiling with forced patience. “I’ll buy you some lozenges, okay? And you might get a little feverish later so I’ll pick up some pills. At least that way you might get some sleep tonight.”

“I don’t take pills any more.”

Dean frowns. “Oh, come on. Not even Tylenol?”

“No.” Castiel meets his gaze firmly. “I don’t care what it is. If it’s pill-shaped, I don’t want it.”

Dean raises his hands in a gesture of peace. “Okay, okay. I get you. You’re an addict, I know. I’m glad you’re sticking to your guns.”

He pats the back of his jeans to check he has his wallet and is almost out the door when Castiel says, “Vodka would be good, though.”

Dean smirks at him and leaves.

Castiel drops his head back on his pillow and thinks about vodka. There’s a minibar a few feet away. He thinks about vodka _a lot._

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

The day drags on. Castiel sniffs. He sneezes. He coughs. Dean keeps telling him he’s disgusting and that he doesn’t want to catch his bug so they have to stay apart, but at least he’s a little more sympathetic when Castiel starts shivering. He helps him into bed and tucks the motel’s rough blankets around him, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead. Castiel can’t understand why he’s so dismissive of his misery the rest of the time, though, and can only assume this is a trial all humans suffer from an early age and they’re so used to feeling like this it doesn’t throw them. It throws him, however, and after the thousandth sneeze and its accompanying, albeit mild, nosebleed, he finds himself seriously wanting to get drunk. Could he drown a cold?

Dean falls asleep on the other bed just after midnight. Castiel totally gets why he hadn’t wanted to share with him when he was in such a state, but it still annoys him that they’re not together. He tries to sleep himself but he can’t breathe through his nostrils a lot of the time and his razorblade-filled throat makes swallowing difficult. 

_Whiskey would burn all the way down,_ he thinks. _It’d be great._

He manages to doze lightly for a couple of hours. When he wakes up he’s sweating. He shucks off the blankets and sighs in relief, but ten minutes later he has to pick them up off the floor and wrap them around him again when he suddenly finds that he’s freezing. It keeps happening and it reminds him strongly of the way he’d felt when he was kicking the heroin back in Kansas City. That makes him think about the drug itself, about how Billy used to boast that his suppliers were the best in North America and that no other hit was quite like one of his. Billy was dead now, and it was all Castiel’s fault. Billy wasn’t a nice person but he still hadn’t deserved to die like that. He’d given Castiel a home and food and someone to talk to. Billy had given him...

Drugs. 

Castiel really, really wants to get high right now. 

He knows he’s not thinking straight because he has a fever. It’s not even a _bad_ fever, either: just enough to make him a little hazy and disoriented, but he’s hardly hallucinating or anything. Yet it’s still enough to tip the balance of his thinking towards his old habits. He starts to obsess over how he can get himself a hit without Dean finding out. He wonders how much cash is in Dean’s wallet. He tries to calculate how much alcohol he could drink without Dean smelling it on him or guessing what he’d been doing.

It goes on until four in the morning, and by then Castiel’s out of bed and pacing on unsteady legs, twitching and shivering as he tries to control himself. This is the worst he’s felt in months. He _needs_ to shoot up, he _has_ to shoot up. It’s all he can do not to run out the door and search for what he needs but he can’t, he knows he can’t. Dean sleeps on, completely oblivious to his internal battle, even when Castiel turns on the lamp by his bed. With the room full of light Castiel doesn’t feel quite so freaked but he still finds it hard to stop himself from bolting as the warring sensations inside his body threaten to overwhelm him.

He starts exploring the room, just for something to do. Five minutes later he finds a Bible.

He stares at it for a little while, knowing it’s merely a collection of stories and half-truths that have been warped and mistranslated across thousands of years, but the core values remain the same: God made everything, and mankind should love God. Castiel runs his fingertips across the fake leather cover and picks it up. He holds it to his nose, wanting to smell old paper, power and knowledge, but it’s a new book and he can’t smell a damn thing anyway. All he can do is read it.

It both amuses him and makes him sad. There’s so much that’s wrong but so much that’s right. In a way it’s like _Route 666_ and those other, forthcoming Winchester movies: it’s telling a story that’s been twisted and shaped by countless pens and minds. But no matter how much has changed, it’s still holy. The fact that so many people believe in and worship these words makes it so. It’s a powerful, awe-inspiring thing, and Castiel reads it for as long as he can before his hands start shaking so much he can’t hold it any more.

He paces again. He shudders. He curls up on the bed and tries to sleep, but he’s too cold. He splashes water on his face in the bathroom when he gets too hot. He tries to think about the Bible when his brain is screaming for him to stick a needle in his arm and it gets harder and harder to ignore the urge. He starts to feel light-headed and sick. He needs to get drunk. He needs to get high. He _needs_.

His reason fights with his fever until finally he can’t take it any more and he shakes Dean awake.

“Dean,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “ _Dean._ ”

Dean shifts and sighs before he opens his eyes and looks up at him blearily. “What’s going on?” he asks, confused. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not. I’m going crazy, Dean. I can’t hold out any longer.”

“Hold out? What are you...? Jesus, you look like shit.”

“My palms are itching,” Castiel tells him helplessly. “It’s like they’re alive and I can’t stop scratching them. Something’s crawling under my skin and it won’t stop until I get some heroin. I need it, Dean, I really need it.”

Dean’s looking at him like he’s gone completely off the rails. “Okay, okay, calm down, Cas. Take a deep breath or two. Or a million.” He sits up, scrapes a hand down his face and climbs out of bed. Castiel backs away from him until he’s standing at the door. He’s not sure if he wants to open it and run away or stay here, and his indecision must show on his face because Dean eyes him warily and frowns. 

“Come on, Cas. You need to get back to bed.”

“I need to get high,” Castiel moans, hugging himself. “I can’t fight it any more. I need it too much.”

Dean is suddenly right in front of him, his hands on his shoulders. “You don’t need it. You’re strong enough to get through this, okay?”

“I think I have a fever,” Castiel tells him miserably. 

Dean places a hand on his forehead. “You think so, huh?” he murmurs sympathetically. “I’ve got news for you, bucko – any time you think something’s crawling around under your skin, that’s pretty much a sign you’re delirious. Come on, lie down. You need sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He glances down at his watch. “Uh, make that lunchtime, seeing as it’s morning already.”

Castiel gulps down a few ragged breaths and lets Dean lead him to the bed. He lies down and shivers as blankets are placed on top of him, Dean’s hands reassuring in their firmness as they arrange them over his body and pat him on the arm. “There you go. Just try to relax now. Close your eyes and things will be better when you wake up.”

Dean’s talking to him like he’s a baby, but Castiel doesn’t care. He watches as his companion sits beside him on the mattress and a quizzical expression flashes across his face. He picks up the Bible from the nightstand and raises his eyebrows at him. “Were you reading this?”

“Yes.”

Dean flicks through it and smirks. “I’ll be damned. And there was me thinking you’d turned your back on all this.”

“God turned his back on _us_.”

“And yet you’ll still read the good book?”

Castiel can’t think of how to reply, so he simply shrugs. 

Dean puts the book back. He looks thoughtful. “You know, I’ve just remembered there’s something I forgot to give you.”

He spends the next minute rummaging through one of his bags until he pulls something out with a triumphant, “A-ha!” Grinning, he sits on the bed again and places something cold on Castiel’s palm.

It’s the silver cross Dean gave him all those months ago; Castiel had assumed he’d never see it again. He lifts it up and watches it spin on the end of the cord before turning his gaze back to Dean. “How did you... how did you get this?”

“I went to your fleapit apartment to collect your stuff before we left Kansas City.”

“You did?”

Dean looks a little surprised. “Didn’t you ever wonder how come you had all your clothes when we got to Missouri’s? Of course I did, dumbass. I found that in a drawer but I kept forgetting I had it.”

The metal’s cool against Castiel’s skin and he sighs, suddenly feeling a little better. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean replies, looking at him oddly. “Get some shut-eye, okay?”

He reaches across to turn out the light but doesn’t move from the edge of the mattress. Castiel grips the cross tight in his hand and closes his eyes, feeling fingers trail comfortingly down his arm in the darkness. 

Somehow, he’s asleep in five minutes flat.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

He feels pretty stupid when he wakes up that afternoon, but he also feels better and that’s all he really cares about. Dean stops making fun of him, too, and goes out of his way to do things to cheer him up, so all in all Castiel can’t say his first cold was that much of a disaster.

Dean gets a cold of his own a week later. Watching him trying his damnedest to be stronger than Castiel and not whinge about it when he clearly feels dreadful is the funniest thing Castiel’s ever seen.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Dean doesn’t get recognized. It doesn’t matter where they go or what they do, nobody knows who he is; the glamor the witch placed on him is holding firm. Both of them wonder what he looks like with the spell, but there’s no way of knowing short of asking a stranger to describe Dean in detail, so they just go with it.

Castiel thinks he looks nothing like the way he looked as an angel, what with his long hair and change of wardrobe, but every now and then someone looks at him strangely or comes up and asks if his name is “Cass”. Every time it happens it frustrates him. They’re supposed to be lying low, staying under the demons’ radar... getting on with their lives. All of that is impossible when their fight with Lucifer is being discussed in great detail all across the internet and TV. Chuck calls to say that Hollywood have trebled his fee for the rest of the Winchester movies. He’s starting to sound a bit freaked, but his pseudonym is thankfully holding firm; only a handful of people know who he really is. 

By Christmas, some fringe religious groups have started calling for Dean Winchester to be canonized. 

“I’m no fucking saint,” Dean grumbles as they fill up the car outside a freezing gas station in Duluth.

“Amen to that,” Castiel mutters, then ducks as Dean picks up an abandoned cup of coffee from the pump and tries to throw it over him. Thankfully it’s frozen. 

But it gets worse a few days later. The brand new Pope mentions Dean’s name in his inaugural address to the New Year crowds at the Vatican. When Dean finds out, he looks like he wants to _die_.

“I don’t even believe in God,” he scowls, flicking off the TV and throwing the remote across the room.

Castiel doesn’t reply. It still bothers him that Dean doesn’t acknowledge the existence of their Father. God is gone. Castiel has accepted it. God ran away when things got tough and left the Earth to fend for itself. God is nowhere.

But He’d been there _once._

“I guess it doesn’t matter what you believe,” he says eventually, as Dean huffs and pulls on his shoes. “The only thing that matters is what everybody else believes, and they all think you saved the world.” He gets up and walks into the bathroom, ruffling Dean’s hair as he passes by him, despite knowing he hates it. “Probably because you did.”

Dean flinches away from his hand and growls. “Yeah, yeah. So the Pope loves me. That’s not gonna help us salt and burn this ghost tonight, is it?”

“I’m sure he’d help if he could.”

Dean sniffs. “That stupid pointy hat would only get in the way.”

Castiel shuts the bathroom door and splashes cold water on his face. Dean was happy without God. 

Why wasn’t he?

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

Dean decides to try to glamor Castiel himself while they’re in Atlanta. He copies the tattoo from his arm onto Castiel’s shoulder and recites the same spell the witch had used on him. Castiel listens closely, recognizing the words and cadence of the spell, correcting him until he gets it right. Once it’s cast, Castiel raises his eyebrows and Dean stares back at him.

“You look the same to me,” Dean shrugs.

“It only works on strangers.”

“I know. And thank fuck for that. Imagine if you’ve ended up looking like Richard Nixon and I could only see you as him.”

“Considering how many times you had to perform the spell until you got it right, I’ll be amazed if I even look human right now.”

When they go outside, nobody looks at Castiel twice. It doesn’t mean the spell worked, of course, but as Dean points out cheerfully, at least he’s not the Elephant Man.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel doesn’t giggle. Not when he’s sober, anyway; he only giggles a lot when he’s stoned or drunk. He’s having trouble hiding his giggles right now, however, as they drive along a deserted stretch of road outside of Knoxville and Dean is trying his damnedest not to sound as though he’s going to die of embarrassment as he speaks.

“Come on, Cas, give me some feedback here. Good idea or crappy idea?”

“It works for some people,” Castiel nods, biting the insides of his mouth to keep from laughing. “It might work for you.”

“But it’s fake, isn’t it? It’s _cheating._ ”

“Cheating?” That makes Castiel laugh out loud, and Dean looks at him sharply. 

“So pleased you’re enjoying my pain, Cas.”

“Sorry. It’s just you thinking that Viagra is _cheating_... what the hell are you cheating at? Getting an erection isn’t an exam you have to pass, Dean. Nobody’s going to fail you for taking a pill.”

“It’s not natural,” Dean frowns, glaring at the road ahead. The sky is an ominous gray; they’re driving into a storm. 

Castiel folds his arms. “Of course it’s not natural. But it works.”

Dean shoots him a curious glance. “I take it from the unbearable smugness in your voice that you’ve tried it.”

Castiel shrugs. “You know me. I’ve tried everything.”

Dean waits for him to elaborate, but Castiel is enjoying making him suffer. After a few moments he hides a smile when Dean sputters, “ _And?!_ ”

“What do you expect me to say? It’s alright.”

“Gee, thanks. That’s a stunning endorsement.”

Castiel watches the first few drops of rain hit the windshield and frowns thoughtfully. “It does weird things to women.”

Dean does a double take. “I thought it was made for guys?”

“It was, which is why it does weird things to women. Well, one woman. I can’t say I’ve done it with any others.”

“So what happened? Did she grow a dick or something?”

“It was... surprising.” 

“Surprising how?”

Castiel scratches his neck idly. “I think I’ll respect her privacy and keep it between the two of us.”

Dean laughs gruffly and slaps the steering wheel. “You’re so full of shit, Cas. No way did you ever get a woman to take Viagra with you.”

Castiel thinks back to what he can remember of that evening. It was a few years ago and he’d been amazingly, _spectacularly_ drunk, but he can remember one thing very well indeed. 

“Weird,” he says again, and leaves it at that.

Dean taps his fingers on the wheel and sighs. He tilts his head to stare at the sullen sky and sighs again. “This road’s going to turn to mush if it starts raining. Where the hell are we, anyway?”

“We’ve got another five miles till we hit the town.”

“How do you know that without looking at the map?”

“I’m psychic.”

Dean grimaces. “If you’re psychic, what am I thinking right now?”

“That you’re hungry.”

“I’m always hungry. You don’t need to be a mind-reader to know that.”

“I was right though, wasn’t I?”

Dean snorts and glances up at the mirror. He stares for a few moments before pursing his lips and announcing warily, “That guy looks like he’s on a mission.”

Castiel twists in his seat to look out the back window. There’s a petrol tanker roaring up behind them, smoke pouring out of the exhausts above the cab. Something about it creeps him out and he narrows his eyes to get a better look at the driver, but the tanker’s still too far away. It’s approaching fast, though.

Too fast.

“What’s it doing out here?” Castiel wonders suspiciously. “There’s nothing round here except dirt tracks and the odd farmhouse.”

“It’s hunting us,” Dean says tightly, and floors the gas pedal. The Toyota barely responds; it’s not made for racing, but thankfully neither is the tanker. For a few tense moments it looks as though it’s going to catch up with them until they gain enough of a lead to know they’re safe. The fact the driver tries so hard to keep up proves beyond a doubt that there’s something wrong about his presence there. As the tanker disappears in their rearview mirror, its horn blares. The noise is the most mournful sound Castiel has ever heard.

“Okay, so that was scary,” Dean admits, watching tensely in the mirror as the tanker turns off the dirt road and disappears into some trees. “Ever seen _Duel_? I watched it as a kid and it scared the crap outta me. Plus I was in a crash with a rig once...”

“The driver was a demon,” Castiel interrupts. “I saw his eyes. If he knows where we are, they all will soon enough.”

“We need to get the hell out of here,” Dean mutters, getting _that look_ again, the one Castiel only sees occasionally nowadays: the one that’s all promised death and fierce determination. It chills him, but at times like this it’s probably a good thing.

“Do we carry on to the town or turn off?” Castiel asks, picking up the map and studying it. “There are a ton of roads around here to get lost on. It’ll never find us if we’re lucky.”

“Guess we take pot luck, then,” Dean grunts, and swings the wheel right.

~ ~ ~ 

They drive for an hour amidst rapidly worsening weather. The sky gets so dark Castiel can barely see the map any more, but that also works in their favor because their car also isn’t easy to see through the sheets of rain. Unfortunately the water also turns the road into a mudbath. They’re way out in the country and trying to avoid the highway, so it seems as though tarmac and hardtop will be a distant memory for a while.

“This sucks,” Dean grits out, as the tyres spin on the Toyota for the third time in as many minutes and he grapples with the wheel. “We can’t go on like this much longer.”

The wipers are moving so quickly they’re making Castiel dizzy. He looks away and tries to figure out a course of action. They could stay in one spot until the storm subsides, but it’s safer to keep moving. They have to avoid every car they see. The demon is quite capable of moving from vehicle to vehicle and possessing their drivers; just because they left the tanker behind doesn’t mean they’re safe. 

This is the first time Castiel has encountered a demon since the attack in Kansas City. Just the thought of it brings on a headache.

“Fuck!” Dean curses, as the car spins its wheels again in the mud. “Maybe we should stay here for a while? I’m not sure I can get us out.”

They’re sitting beside a rapidly flowing creek, its water stained reddish-brown from the run-off from the fields around it. There are trees surrounding them and they’re better-hidden than they have been for hours. Castiel sizes up their location, blinking as lightning flashes. “Do we have any choice?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Fuck,” Dean snaps again, and turns off the engine with a flourish. He peers around them and squints into the gloom. “I can see a barn over there. Must be a farmhouse nearby. Want to make a run for it?”

“I don’t think–” 

They both jump out of their skins as the tanker’s horn sounds behind them. It’s approaching so quickly they barely have time to acknowledge it before there’s a tremendous _crunch_ , the sound of tearing metal and the sickening, stomach-lurching sensation of flying. It only lasts a few seconds but it’s long enough for Castiel to register that they’ve been thrown towards the creek... and then they hit the water.

The car flips and rolls onto its side, bumping and sliding along grass and mud until it comes to rest, driver’s side down, in the water. Castiel is held in place by his seatbelt but the impact shakes him like a ragdoll, the strap digging so tightly into his shoulder and waist that it steals his breath away. He closes his eyes for the duration of the crash and when he opens them again there’s a moment of utter disorientation as he stares through the windshield at the surface of the creek at eye level. The water’s flowing around the car with enough force to make it vibrate in the current; it’s dripping through cracks in the windscreen and looks as though it’s going to shatter the entire pane at any second.

Stunned, Castiel groans and glances down at himself. He’s still strapped in his seat, but only just, and the angle of the car is threatening to spill him sideways and onto...

“Dean!” 

His companion is lying flat against the driver’s door with one hand slotted between the spokes of the steering wheel. There’s blood coating one side of his face and his eyes are firmly closed. For one horror-stricken moment Castiel thinks his neck’s broken, but then Dean’s eyes flicker and he moans, just loud enough for Castiel to hear him over the roar of the water and the rain slamming onto the car. He doesn’t wake up, though, and when Castiel reaches down to untangle him from the seatbelt he has to suppress a wave of fear when he sees that water’s pouring in through the broken glass of the window under Dean’s cheek. It’s already a few inches deep – he has to get him out of there or he’ll drown in a matter of minutes. Cursing, he unclasps his own seatbelt, bracing himself on the dash to stop himself falling onto Dean, before struggling to undo the seatbelt beside him.

There’s an almighty _screech_ from above him. Castiel turns, shocked, just in time to see the door completely ripped off its hinges. 

Somehow, he’d forgotten about the demon.

 _Dean has the knife in his coat pocket,_ he thinks frantically, twisting to grab it while he still has a chance... but then his chance is over. The demon reaches into the car, grabs him around the waist and heaves him outside in one powerful lunge; he hits the side of the creek so hard it pushes all the air out of his body. He slides down the mud and into the water, bracing himself against the current as he turns, gasping and choking, to watch the demon peer inside the vehicle at Dean before standing up again and turning to him. It’s wearing the body of a middle-aged man wearing a t-shirt with a stupid Transformers robot on it, but there’s nothing stupid about the glint in its too-dark eyes.

“Hello, angel,” it says.

Castiel goes cold from head to toe. _It’s him._ This is the same demon that nearly killed him in Kansas. This is the demon that knows him inside-out already. He battles to breathe as it walks out of the creek and up the bank, sliding on the mud as it leans over and grabs his arm. He’s pulled away from the freezing water and thrown unceremoniously against a tree in perfect time with a flash of lightning and a thunderclap. He falls to his knees, shaking, as the demon crouches beside him and lifts his head by his hair.

“I’m not fucking around with you this time, Castiel,” it growls dangerously. “It took me long enough to track you down and I’m not wasting another second.” 

It leans in, so close Castiel can smell sulfur on its breath.

 _“Where is Dean Winchester?”_ it hisses.

For a few seconds, Castiel simply stares up at him, incredulous, before he remembers that Dean’s under a spell and the demon can’t have recognized the man in the car. He’d seen the other guy, the one the witch’s glamor was conjuring. _So the spell does work on demons,_ he thinks hurriedly, before his thoughts coalesce and remind him of something far more important: 

_The car is filling with water and Dean is going to drown unless he gets him out of there_. 

Suddenly he’s furious. The last time he’d met this demon he’d been a wasted, strung-out junkie who hadn’t even had the willpower to fight for his life. Now he’s stronger, fitter and absolutely determined to fight for _two_ lives. Demons are powerful and Castiel has no weapons, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try, if only to buy him some time to get back to the car. With a yell of defiance, he jerks upwards and cracks the demon under the jaw with his skull, ignoring the pain that sparks from the impact. 

It has the desired effect – the demon is taken by surprise and falls backwards, releasing Castiel’s hair and hitting the mud with an angry grunt. Castiel looks around him frantically for a weapon, spotting a branch a few feet away that looks thick enough to land a few good blows. He rolls through the mud and grabs it just as the rain starts coming down so heavily it actually starts to hurt where it hits his bare skin and head.

“You little fuck!” the demon barks, jumping to his feet and rubbing his jaw. “I haven’t got time for this!”

He lunges forward menacingly but finds himself smacked on the kneecaps with a branch for his efforts. Despite the fact demons are strong and largely invincible, the bodies they possess can still bend, break and snap, making it hard for them to move until they expend the power to overcome the injury. It’s this Castiel counts on as he hits his opponent again, knocking him to the ground on his hands and knees. He staggers to his feet and kicks the demon as hard as he can in the stomach, hoping it’ll slow him down enough for him to get to the car, the knife and _Dean_.

But the demon’s stronger than he thinks. A hand shoots out and grabs him by the ankle before he’s even taken two steps; with a yell, Castiel is yanked to the ground and finds himself blinking up at the rain-sodden sky. The droplets hurt his face where they hit and he absently realizes that it’s not rain any more. It’s hail.

“So you wanna play, do you?” The demon backhands him hard across the face and Castiel tastes blood. His head spins and for a few seconds the world goes fuzzy at the edges.

“Where is he, you fallen piece of shit?” the demon shouts, shaking him by the shoulders. “You tell me where he is or I’ll get inside you again and, so help me, I’ll dig it out of your head no matter how hard you try to throw me out! You think what I did to you the last time hurt? Just you wait until I finish with you this time round! I can mess with your head so much you won’t even know your own name when I’m done!”

“Screw you,” Castiel gasps, spitting blood in the demon’s face. He struggles desperately, picturing Dean drowning just a few feet away, helpless and unconscious and totally reliant on him to save his life. He can’t fail him. He _can’t_.

“Tell me where he is,” commands the demon, grabbing Castiel by the jaw. “We’ve got to find him and you’re our only connection. He’s not worth dying for, angel.”

“I already died for him once,” Castiel spits, squirming under his grip. “What makes you think I won’t do it again?”

“Because you’re human now and you’re going to Hell. You’ve been there, or so I hear. You don’t want to go back.”

Castiel ignores him, bucking and thrashing under his body. All he can think is _Dean Dean Dean_ ; nothing else matters. He fights so hard that the demon curses and grips his wrists so tightly Castiel cries out in pain, but there’s nothing he can do.

“Where’s Dean Winchester? You’ve got five seconds, Hellbait.”

 _Dean’s drowning._ “Let me _go!_ ”

“Five… four…”

Castiel’s eyes suddenly focus on the pendant hanging around the demon’s neck, swinging in front of his eyes.

Dean’s amulet.

What the hell is this demon doing wearing _Dean’s amulet?_

“Three… two… ow! What the fuck…?”

Something hard and cold smacks into Castiel’s cheek at precisely the same moment the demon lets go of his hands and covers his own head. He has no idea what’s happening, but his reflexes are still sharp enough to use it as distraction to shove his attacker off him and roll away. Behind him, the demon continues to curse as Castiel climbs to his feet, but then something hits him on the head hard enough to send him toppling into the mud again. He blinks, stunned, and his eyes finally focus on what’s falling out of the blackened sky. 

The hailstones are immense; chunks of ice the size of marbles which grow in size as he watches, hitting the mud with louder and louder _thwacks_ , clusters of ice bouncing and rolling on the ground. A couple fall nearby which are the size of baseballs and Castiel instinctively rolls backwards and under the shade of a tree. The demon’s not so lucky – several huge hailstones hit him squarely on the head, hard enough to kill an ordinary human. He flinches and staggers a little, but he doesn’t go down.

“Great weather for this time of year, huh?” the demon grins, spreading his arms wide. “I think there’s a storm comin’.”

Castiel looks across at the car, which is almost completely underwater now. The creek has risen at least a foot since he was pulled out of it and it’s barely been two minutes. This whole area’s going to vanish under a flash flood very soon, but all he can think about is Dean. He jumps to his feet and tries to run across to the vehicle but, as always, the demon is faster than he is. He’s face-down in the mud so quickly he would scream in frustration except he can’t breathe in without choking on wet earth.

“Invigorating, is what it is,” drawls the demon, yanking him onto his back and wiping dripping hair out of his eyes with mock gentleness. “I like a good storm, even the ones that sting a little.” A hailstone the size of an egg bounces off his shoulder and the demon grins. “Haven’t seen weather this exciting since Lucifer was here. I guess Mother Nature got a taste for it in his absence.”

Thunder cracks above them and the trees bend almost double in the wind, the sound of their leaves and the hail hitting the ground so loud it almost drowns out the demon’s words. Castiel is immune to all of it: he hisses and twists, beyond frantic because Dean’s been underwater for too long now, _too fucking long_ , but the demon holds him firm and he starts to realize that he can’t escape. This is it. This bastard has him trapped and Dean is as good as dead. 

“Tell me where he is!” orders the demon, oblivious to the fact that the man he wants is drowning less than ten feet away under the guise of someone else.

Castiel screams, using the very last vestige of his strength to try to throw the demon off him, but he doesn’t budge an inch. Then he falls limp, blinking up at him hopelessly. 

“Ask me again in Hell,” he pants, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

The demon’s eyes narrow. He places a hand over Castiel’s mouth and pulls it downwards, hard. He leans over him and Castiel tries not to think about the last time this happened, about how it felt to have those claws tearing into his mind. His body will try to expel the demon again but it won’t be quick enough; it’ll go straight into his head this time, learning everything it needs to know in a heartbeat before destroying him completely. 

Castiel suddenly doesn’t care. Without Dean, what the hell reason does he have to live anyway?

The demon opens its mouth and Castiel stares up at him numbly. Then there’s movement behind his head; Castiel’s eyes flick sideways to see Dean at precisely the same second the demon senses him. 

“Get off him, you son of a…” 

Dean thrusts with the knife in what should be a killing blow, but with astonishing reflexes the demon twists just in time to avoid getting it between the shoulderblades. The knife slices into his arm instead, making him scream as a small burst of red light surges out of the wound. He’s distracted for long enough for Dean to lift the knife again… but then his eyes fall on the necklace around the demon’s neck. They widen in shock, and the delay is exactly what his opponent needs. He raises a hand and suddenly Dean’s flying through the air to hit a nearby tree, the knife skidding out of reach into some bushes. He slumps to the ground in a heap and curls into a ball, clearly hurt.

Castiel has no idea how he got out of the car, but he doesn’t care. Relief floods through him along with a surge of adrenaline and he’s off the ground and on top of the demon in a heartbeat, knocking him sideways and head-first into the creek. He almost follows him in, sliding on the slippery mud, but holds himself back at the last moment and turns to see where the knife went. It’s their only chance, but he only has a few seconds to find–

He stops dead.

His eyes fall on the field beyond the trees, and what he sees shocks him so much he barely even notices when the demon swears behind him, clearly seeing the same thing.

A dark, ominous funnel is pouring itself down from the black clouds above the land to hit the earth less than a mile away. Even from here Castiel can hear the howl of the wind, a hideous whine that makes his hair stand on end and his teeth grind together. The hail was just the start of it – this is tornado weather, and there’s every chance the twister will follow the wind direction and head straight for them once it gains momentum.

“Fuck,” the demon growls, and Castiel manages to tear his eyes away from the funnel in time to see him running for his tanker, leaping into the driver’s seat one-handed as blood pours down his arm from the knife wound. It’s not until the engine starts and Castiel looks back at the tornado – which is totally formed now, spinning and thrashing across the field – that he feels himself snap back to life. 

They’ve got to find cover, or they’ll die.

“Dean!” he yells, darting over to his side and helping him sit upright. Blood is rolling down his cheek in long, sticky tendrils and his face is ashen, but Castiel hasn’t got time to see if he’s alright. He tugs him to his feet, supporting his weight, and looks around them desperately.

“Is he going?” Dean mumbles, staring blearily at the tanker as it backs down the sodden, muddy track. “Did we win?”

“There’s a tornado on the way and we need to get the hell out of here,” Castiel tells him abruptly, torn between staying among the trees or making a dash for the farmhouse a small distance away. He’s not sure Dean can make it that far, but there’ll be more chance of finding safety in a building than out here.

Beside him, Dean hisses in a breath of shock as his eyes fall on the twister. His body tenses and he pulls away from Castiel, supporting himself as though he knows he can’t be weak right now. “We need to get in among the trees,” he declares, taking an unsteady step backwards. “Cas, we need cover. We can’t be caught in the open.”

“It’s too dangerous to stay here,” Castiel tells him urgently, having to raise his voice to a shout over the wind. Dean’s staring at the twister and his eyes are wide and black – he’s probably got a concussion and isn’t thinking straight. Castiel takes his arm and Dean turns to him, shaking. His hair is plastered to his forehead in the rain and suddenly Castiel has the strangest feeling he knows this, somehow… he hasn’t seen it, but he’s heard about it…

“Chuck!” he gasps, amazed. “He dreamt this! He said he saw us both running in the rain! That’s it, we can’t stay here. He saw us running – that means we’ve got to _run._ ” 

Without wasting another second he pulls Dean after him and heads for the farmhouse a few hundred feet away. It’s hidden by the rain and swirls of flying leaves from the trees behind them, but he knows it’s there and he prays there’ll be some kind of shelter – a cellar, a barn, anything. Maybe the people who live there will help them. It’s a long shot but it’s all they have; there’s nowhere else to go. 

The wind screams around them as they run, pummeling them with flying debris. Dean stumbles and falls more than once but Castiel picks him up again, throwing a hand around his waist to support him, feeling him struggling for breath against his side. He’s in a bad way but at least he’s moving and conscious: Castiel knows he’d never be able to carry him if he wasn’t. “Shit,” Dean gasps as he falls for the fifth or sixth time, but Castiel just yanks him upright and they run some more.

There’s a sudden roar and whoosh of wind behind them that almost blows them both off their feet. A second later, a tremendous explosion rents the air. Castiel looks behind him and is stunned to see the petrol tanker lying on its side half a mile down the road, flames spewing out of the cylindrical container in all directions. The funnel is moving away from it and the wind is twisting the jet-black smoke pouring from the vehicle into crazy patterns in the air, writhing and dancing among the rain. 

“The demon,” Dean says blankly, but there’s no way of knowing if it was inside the cab when the truck blew. 

The tornado shifts in mid-air, moving away from them. For an entire second, Castiel thinks it’s going to leave. 

Then it shifts again and heads straight for them. 

“RUN!” he screams, and then there’s nothing but wind and hard-edged rain lashing into them; the howls and screeches of the tornado growing ever-nearer. It’s impossible to outrun a twister, everybody knows that, but they have no choice as they crash through puddles and streams and into the yard outside the farmhouse. 

They get as far as the door to the barn and see it’s padlocked shut. After that, all they can do is hit the ground.

“Lie as flat as you can!” Castiel yells at the top of his lungs, fighting the urge to throw himself on top of Dean to keep him safe. It would just make them more of a target – they need to be flat, as close to the ground as possible so the wind can’t suck them up and into the funnel. He buries his face in the mud and moans helplessly as the wind threatens to tear him away, his ears popping in the sudden pressure changes surrounding the maelstrom. He wants to cover them because everything is so loud but he can’t, he’s not allowed to lift his hands up – he has to stay flat, as flat as he can be, he has to stay down and not move and be safe…

He’d been able to summon tornadoes, once. He’d been able to control the elements, make them do his bidding. He’d watched Uriel command four twisters to destroy a town in Africa that had been overrun by demons; he’d watched with no emotion whatsoever as red dust had carried countless humans into the air along with the creatures that had been terrorizing them. He _understood_ tornadoes down to the smallest gust of air: he knew the forces it took to shape them, to make them dance, to make them _kill_. When he’d been an angel, a tornado had been nothing more than a tool. 

Now it’s something so immeasurably terrifying he can barely keep from screaming.

Then, suddenly, everything stops. The wind dies down and the furious, howling cacophony surrounding them disappears. It happens so quickly Castiel thinks for a moment that he’s gone deaf, but he can still hear raindrops hitting the mud around him and the ragged gasps pouring out of Dean’s chest off to his right. He lifts his head, confused, and there’s nothing there – no funnel, no threat. It’s gone.

And there’s really _nothing there._ The barn is gone. There are planks and bales of straw strewn everywhere, but no building. Castiel turns his head to find the farmhouse, but that’s gone too; all that’s left are the foundations. There’s not a trace of anything that was inside it. There are cars lying on their sides on the other side of the yard: they look as though they’ve been plucked from the ground, squashed in a giant fist and slammed back onto the earth again. 

Blinking, Castiel looks behind him at the creek where their car had crashed. There’s not a single tree left standing, only a mountain of wooden debris. If they’d stayed there, they’d be kindling themselves by now.

“Holy crap,” Dean exclaims softly, and Castiel glances over at him. He’s staring around them with exactly the same look of horror on his face that Castiel must be wearing, but he’s alive and he’s moving and that’s all he can process right now. 

He looks away, still in shock, and that’s when he notices that they’re surrounded by debris but nothing, absolutely nothing, is any closer than six feet away. 

Frowning, he gets to his feet and stares, aghast. There’s carnage everywhere: broken planks, tree branches, fence posts, twisted heaps of metal that could have been anything; not to mention twigs and leaves, bushes and dead wood. But he and Dean are inside a perfect, pristine patch of mud shaped like a circle. It’s as though they’ve been protected.

“What the hell happened?” Dean asks, his voice strangled. “Cas… how did this happen? Was it you?”

“No,” Castiel says stiffly, feeling every nerve in his body tingle. He looks down at the ground and sees something shining by his feet. He bends to pick it up, already knowing what it is and that it will feel hot against his fingers.

Dean hisses out a breath. “Is that my necklace?” 

“Yes.” Castiel studies it dully for a moment and hands it over to him.

“It was around the demon’s neck… how did it get here?”

Castiel looks up at the sky. The gray clouds are parting. There’s blue up there now.

“He’s back,” he says. “He’s _back._ ”

 

~ ~ ~

 

.


	8. Chapter 8

 

_8\. Knoxville ~ On the road_

 

Castiel can’t waste any time dwelling on it. He wants to fall to his knees and pray. He wants to cry. He wants to bow his head and give thanks and never move again. Instead he’s standing by a wrecked farmhouse dripping wet, freezing cold, covered in mud and trembling with exhaustion. He’s aching all over from his fight with the demon and, more importantly, Dean needs him. He’s concussed and hurt in ways Castiel doesn’t know about yet, and they need to find help and get warm as soon as they can or neither of them will come out of this whole.

For the moment, however, Dean’s simply staring at the necklace with such an expression of amazement it’s almost comical. 

“He stole it from Sam’s grave,” he says. “That son of a bitch was the one who stole it. You said you could find God with it, didn’t you? Does it have powers a demon could use as well?”

“No, it hasn’t. Maybe he just took it as a memento.”

“I don’t get it,” Dean mutters, and wipes blood out of his eyes with a shaking hand. 

“Have you got your cellphone?”

Dean checks his pockets. “No. It must be in the car.”

Castiel nods, expecting as much. They’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s no way to call for help; they’re going to have to walk to the nearest town. Luckily he remembers the route from the map, but it’s a good ten miles away.

“You should stay here. I’ll go for help.”

“No way, José. That demon could still be out there. We’re sticking together.”

“Dean, you look like you’re about to pass out. Stay here and try and keep warm. I’ll…”

“Cas.” Dean’s face crinkles underneath all the blood. “Get walking.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

They walk for hours. It gets colder. A soft, steady rain turns to sleet, then threatens to become snow. Dean’s limping and wobbly while Castiel can’t stop shaking, but neither of them say a word until they see lights looming through the dusk and realize they’ve reached civilization.

“So God’s back from His vacation, huh?” Dean declares thinly as Castiel helps steer him towards what looks to be a police station. “Do you think he had a nice time? Cause we sure didn’t.”

Castiel doesn’t answer him, but his teeth are chattering so hard he’s not sure his words would’ve made much sense anyhow.

~ ~ ~

 

The cops hear their story and take them to the nearest hospital, which is on high alert after the tornado, although so far Dean and Castiel are the only victims. The twister – and a few others that formed a few miles away – didn’t cause much damage and nobody was hurt, but after the storms of 2013 no town sits back and breathes a sigh of relief when they die down. There are always more. Lucifer made sure of that, back when he was in control, and it’s hard to forget devastation on such a scale.

Dean is admitted for the night and doesn’t even complain, which is enough for Castiel to figure out how sick he must feel. He’s hypothermic, bruised and battered, with two bumps on his skull the doctor is worried about, although the x-rays come back clear. Dean no sooner lies down on the bed in his room before he’s fast asleep; Castiel finds the most comfortable chair on the entire floor and settles down to watch over him. He’s borderline hypothermic himself but he’s okay and the staff let him stay, if only because he has nowhere else to go. All his possessions are in the car. He has no money. He’s pretty sure most hospitals wouldn’t be so considerate, but they’re impressed that he and his friend survived a twister and this is a small town, so they make him feel welcome.

He wants to sleep more than anything else in the world, but he’s scared the demon will find them. He surreptitiously raids the canteen for packets of salt and pours it above the doorframe to Dean’s room, then across the windowsill. Even then, however, he can’t relax.

He sits and thinks about his Father until dawn breaks, removing the cross from his neck and tossing it from hand to hand as he tries to comprehend the events of the day. But he’s too tired to think clearly. It’s all too much. He’s never felt quite this overwhelmed in his life, and it’s all he can do to keep his eyes open. He finally surrenders to sleep and when he wakes up his head is lying on the bed and Dean’s fingers are tangled in his hair. He only removes them when a nurse walks in and informs them they need the bed for another patient.

~ ~ ~

Dean calls Chuck and asks him to wire some money across to them, something Chuck’s more than happy to do with his new-found Hollywood wealth. They use it to rent a car – to Castiel’s surprise and gratitude, the local Sheriff vouches for him because of his lack of ID – and they drive out to the desolated stretch of countryside to recover as much as they can from the battered old Toyota. 

The creek is nowhere near the raging torrent it had been the day before and Castiel retrieves as many of its soggy contents as he can, almost freezing his ass off in the process. Afterwards he huddles in a blanket in front of the heating vents in the impossibly new rental car while Dean searches the remains of the trees for his knife. It takes him an hour and he’s shivering by the time he climbs back into the car, but they both feel better once he has it in his pocket again.

“What now?” he asks.

Castiel pulls the damp blanket tighter around his shoulder and shudders. “We find a hotel, take a very hot shower and sleep for a week.”

Dean quirks a grin at him. “Don’t you want to eat first? I’m starving.”

“I see a double concussion doesn’t put you off your food for long.”

Dean shakes his head. “It takes more than a homicidal demon, nearly drowning and a tornado to stop me thinking about my stomach.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. “They should study you in a laboratory. You’re a freak.”

Dean casts a final look at the abandoned Toyota, his eyes darkening. “Yeah, well. I’m a hungry freak who’s had enough of this place. Let’s go.”

~ ~ ~

 

Chuck sent them more money than they were expecting, so Dean books them into a hideously expensive hotel in Knoxville rather than a fleapit on the outskirts of the city, saying they need a treat for a change. He showers first while Castiel unpacks their soggy belongings and sorts the muddy clothing into piles to have laundered. Their weapons will need cleaning and drying out. They’ll have to buy a lot of supplies again. Their books and maps are ruined. The biggest loss is their cellphones, but Castiel has all the numbers they need memorized and they can replace the phones tomorrow. It could have been worse; all in all, they’ve been amazingly lucky. 

Dean takes so long to finish his shower that Castiel runs out of things to do as he waits, and so, for the first time in years, he closes his eyes and talks to his Father safe in the knowledge that He is actually there. It feels comforting. _Normal._ By the time Dean comes out of the bathroom he’s feeling more than a little emotional, so he goes in and shuts the door before Dean can speak, then climbs into the shower and turns his face to the spray to wash away the tears. 

He’s not an angel any more – he’s human. He’s weak in so many ways, not all of them physical, and he’s failed in so many of his goals. And yet yesterday he was given a sign. He was protected from danger, as was Dean. He doesn’t quite know how to process the feeling, so he prays again and asks the Lord to show him what to do next. He thanks Him for his attention. He promises to do His bidding. He offers up his love, knowing he’s received His love in return.

He climbs out of the shower and wipes the glass on the mirror, staring at himself intently as it slowly steams up again. He doesn’t look any different. A few bumps and bruises, yes, but he’s still the same Castiel. He’s still human. There’s nothing angelic about him.

And yet God is watching over him. He thinks God has been watching over him for a while. God is still sending Chuck visions to help him. God made sure the demon hadn’t been able to possess him properly. God led him to Dean and saved them both. God wouldn’t let him die in Kansas City.

He presses his forehead on the glass and closes his eyes, wondering if he can dare hope that he’ll find himself forgiven of his sins.

When he leaves the bathroom it’s dark outside. The lights are on in the room and Dean’s lying sideways on the bed, his legs dangling over the edge, with his arm thrown across his face. They’d stopped off to buy some dry clothes on the way to the hotel and he’s wearing a cheap white t-shirt and black cotton boxers, still creased from the packaging. Castiel stops in the doorway, staring at the enormous bruise on Dean’s left knee and the scrapes on his elbows from the crash.

“That was the longest shower in the history of the world,” Dean mumbles from under his arm. “Seriously, dude, I was about to send in the cavalry.”

Castiel sniffs and throws his muddy clothes on the pile by the door. “I was cold.”

Dean smiles, still not lifting his arm. “I bet I can warm you up.”

Castiel sinks to his knees by the bed and runs a hand down Dean’s thigh. He studies the bruise on his knee and, on a whim, leans in to kiss it. He sees another bruise on his shin and kisses that, too. Moving upwards and onto the bed, he pulls Dean’s arm out straight and kisses the scratches on his hands, the grazes on his elbow and the bruises on his forearms. He lifts the other arm from Dean’s eyes and does the same, then lowers it to the bed. 

Dean stares at him contemplatively. “You missed a few,” he instructs him with mock petulance, pointing at his chest. 

Castiel lifts his t-shirt up and kisses the seatbelt burn around his middle, tracing his tongue up the bruise as it rides up his chest and across his shoulder. Dean’s expression doesn’t change as he leans up on his elbows to watch, then rolls over so Castiel can pull up the material covering his back and plant his mouth on the darkening bruises forming there. He kisses him down the length of his spine even though there are no marks on his skin, just to be sure, and Dean lies on his back again and pulls his t-shirt down.

“Don’t forget this,” he tells him, rolling his eyes upwards to indicate the gash on his temple. 

Castiel kisses around the dressing, his tongue picking up the faintest tang of antiseptic. He parts his hair and kisses the bump on the side of Dean’s head, pausing for a moment to be thankful he hadn’t needed stitches there, too, and then moves down to press his lips to his.

“There’s nothing wrong with my mouth,” Dean says matter-of-factly.

Castiel runs his tongue along the length of his lower lip and grins. “Don’t I know it.”

They kiss for a little while, warm and comfortable and loving every minute of this unaccustomed calmness. Then Dean sits up and carefully pushes Castiel back on the bed, pulling off the towel around his waist and looking him up and down. Castiel watches him curiously before smiling as he realizes that Dean’s going to return the favor: sure enough, a tongue soon runs down his own seatbelt burn, pausing to twirl along the bruises under his ribs. Dean kisses his arms and his bruised wrists; his fingers and his shoulders, turning him so he can check his back and run his tongue down his spine, too. Then he lays him flat and traces a finger down the bruise on his cheek, planting a kiss on the small cut left by a hailstone.

“I’m sorry I can’t really kiss it all better,” Dean murmurs, curling his fingers in Castiel’s hair and resting his forehead on his.

“I used to be able to do that,” Castiel says quietly, suddenly weary. “It’s been a while since I could make anything better.”

Dean frowns and nuzzles his neck. “Shut up. You make everything better, you know that. I don’t know where I’d be if it wasn’t for you.”

Castiel closes his eyes. Silence falls, then Dean says softly, “Are you okay? I thought you’d be thrilled about your precious Daddy coming home.”

There’s something in Dean’s voice Castiel doesn’t like. He turns to stare into his eyes, puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean flushes a little and turns away. “Cas… Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy you found your faith again, I really am. And I have to admit, what happened yesterday was… kinda weird. There’s no way I can deny that.”

Castiel stares at the amulet around Dean’s neck, remembering how it had felt so hot in his hand. 

“This is going to make me sound like such a selfish motherfucker, I can’t even–” Dean’s voice trails off and he sits up. 

Castiel stares at him, baffled. “Dean?”

Dean sighs. “It’s something Missouri told me. She said she could read you with her psychic mojo, I dunno how exactly, but she could. And she said you were so crazy about me because that’s what you were created to be. You were created to worship someone. That’s just who you are. You can’t help it.”

Castiel remembers overhearing the conversation, but he pretends to look surprised. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You were _created_ to worship God, Cas. And now He’s back…” He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed, and suddenly Castiel gets it.

“You think I’m going to dump you for Him?”

Dean shrugs at that. “Pretty dumb, huh? Guess I’m feeling a bit insecure. I feel like your ex has just wandered into town and he’s driving a bigger car and has a bigger dick. Except, uh, that’s a pretty crappy analogy. And possibly blasphemous.”

Castiel fakes a sigh. “Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, Dean. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m joining a monastery. God is my only lover now.”

“Very funny.”

“Look…” He takes Dean’s hand and squeezes it, tight. “Missouri said I was created to worship someone. She’s right, I was. I worship our Father. But I don’t worship _you_ , Dean. I _love_ you. There’s a difference.”

Dean meets his gaze, his mouth twitching a little into a small, meek smile. “You love me, huh?”

“Yes, you idiot.”

“I guess I love you too, you pain in the ass.”

“Good. Now stop worrying about ridiculous things and let me get some sleep.” Castiel rubs the heel of a hand against his eye. “I’m so tired. You slept like a baby last night and all I could do was watch.”

Dean rolls off the bed. He pulls the covers back and climbs under them, waiting patiently for Castiel to do the same. Then he reaches out and snaps off the light before huddling so close to him that Castiel can’t help but smile at his eagerness. “I do need to breathe, you know,” he admonishes him, as Dean snakes hands around his chest and hugs him from behind.

“Stop complaining. There are a million girls who’d want to be in your position right now. Even the freakin’ Pope loves me.”

“I don’t think he’d appreciate you stroking _his_ nipples.”

Dean plants a small, tender kiss on his shoulder but doesn’t answer. They lie in the darkness for a while and then Dean says softly, “Does He mind us doing this?”

“Who, the Pope? I think he’s probably a little busy rebuilding Rome.”

“Not him, you moron. God. Isn’t this supposed to be wrong? Aren’t there rules against it?”

Castiel sighs. “The only rules about this kind of behavior have been laid down by humans. God probably doesn’t think the same way we do about sex.”

“Probably? Don’t you know?”

“I can’t read His mind, Dean.”

Dean falls silent for a few moments before saying plaintively, “So we’re not gonna get smited now He’s back up there? Is He watching us right now? That creeps me out.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Go to sleep.”

Dean huffs out a laugh and squeezes him, just a little. “If He’s okay with us, then I guess I can be okay with Him.”

It’s possibly the most positive thing Dean’s ever said about God. Castiel feels a blossom of joy in his chest, but he’s so exhausted he’s asleep before he can truly study it.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He wakes up to a room full of sunlight, the sound of ducks quacking outside the window and something poking him in the back of his thigh which most definitely isn’t something he’s used to waking up to.

“Dean,” he mumbles, still half-asleep, but he can already tell from the way his partner is tensing against his back that he’s awake.

“Shhhh,” comes the unexpected reply.

Castiel thinks about that for a few seconds, puzzled. “You’re shushing me? Do you think I’m going to scare it away?”

Dean shifts a little behind him before muttering, “I have no freakin’ idea, man.”

Castiel rolls to face him. Dean is frowning, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as though he’s only just woken up. Castiel lifts the covers and peers under them before looking up at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“That’s new,” he observes.

“I’m back, baby,” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t look very happy about it.

“You okay?”

Dean shrugs and looks down at himself. “It’s been a year and a half. Why the hell is it full of the joys of spring today? What’s changed? I got a concussion and you found God again. If anyone should be hard, it should be _you_ , not me.”

Castiel nudges his shoulder. “Since when do you overthink stuff like this? Relax. This is a good thing.”

Dean chuckles and pulls himself up the bed until he’s sitting upright. “I can’t believe it’s come to this. I can’t believe I’m actually suspicious of my own _dick._ ”

“Maybe I need to ask it what it’s up to,” Castiel informs him seriously. He slides a hand under the covers and wraps his fingers and palm around the hard flesh, suddenly amazed that he’s never been able to do this before. It’s hot and solid, such a contrast to how it usually feels, and he shoots Dean a grin before deciding this isn’t really a job for hands when lips and tongue will do even better.

But his delight is short-lived, as is Dean’s erection.

“Thought it was too good to be true,” Dean grumbles, as Castiel finally admits defeat and surfaces again.

“It’ll be back.”

“Damn well better be. And you were really going for it… I feel like I ought to apologize for it ignoring you.”

Castiel plants a kiss on his lips and climbs out of the bed, wincing as his bruises greet another day. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he soothes him, stretching carefully. “Just think happy thoughts.”

Dean shoots him a disdainful look that is about as far from ‘happy’ as it’s possible to get.

“Or you could just be a miserable bastard,” Castiel shrugs, and heads into the bathroom.

 

~ ~ ~

 

One week later, Castiel’s fast asleep with his face buried in a threadbare motel pillow that smells faintly of cheap perfume when Dean shakes him awake. He lifts his head and blinks up at him, expecting trouble, but the look on Dean’s face tells him that ‘trouble’ is a long way away.

“Heeeeere’s Johnny!” Dean announces, pointing at his crotch.

It takes him a few moments to understand what he’s talking about; as soon as he does, Castiel can’t help but groan. “You nicknamed your penis ‘Johnny’? You are a weird, weird person.”

“It’s a quote, birdbrain. And anyway, wake up. We’ve got work to do.”

“Work?”

Dean slaps him playfully on his ass. “ _Sex._ Come on, up and at me!”

Castiel croaks out a sleepy laugh and rolls onto his back. The room is cold and lit up by the ugly neon sign outside the window; the flashing reds and blues paint Dean’s body in garish contrasts. He’s already got his t-shirt off and is staring at Castiel expectantly, which rankles a little considering just how much he’d been enjoying his night’s sleep. He frowns at him. “I’m very happy you’re functioning again, Dean, but couldn’t it have waited a few more hours?”

“Sleep is for sissies,” Dean shrugs, leaning over to kiss him, and Castiel stops minding his rude awakening after that. He pulls Dean down on top of him and they wrestle good-naturedly, laughing as they arrange themselves in a semblance of an erotic position, until Dean’s cock and Castiel’s hand connect and then things get serious. 

“That feels fucking _amazing_ ,” Dean hisses, as Castiel twists his palm. “This had better work this time or so help me, I’m cutting my damn dick off.”

“Over my dead body,” Castiel promises softly, setting up a rhythm with his fist and smiling as Dean judders a little in shock. He’s not used to this, not after so long; his nerve-endings must be hyper-sensitive. Indeed, after only a few minutes Castiel feels how close he is and lets go of him, prompting a whispered curse and a glare from his partner that makes him chuckle, particularly when Castiel pushes Dean’s hands away when he tries to finish the job himself.

“No,” he scolds him. “Too fast.”

Dean gapes at him. “Too fast? Have you got any idea how long I’ve waited for this?”

“Yes, which is why I don’t want you coming in my hand.” He grins, tugging Dean down for a kiss with one hand on the back of his neck. “Get inside me,” he growls in his ear, dropping his voice down low. “ _Now._ ”

There’s a startled pause and then Dean growls in return. Castiel thinks it’s the best sound he’s ever heard him make. 

He lies back on the mattress as Dean scrabbles to find the KY in his bag, admiring the way his naked body gleams in the harsh neon light – first red, then blue, over and over. When he turns back to the bed, Castiel holds out a hand palm outwards, indicating that he wants him to stand still.

Dean freezes. “What?”

Castiel sits up, leaning on his elbows. “I just want to look at you.”

Dean snorts. “Can you look at me later? I don’t know how long I can keep this up, dude!”

“I feel like I’ve never really seen you until now,” Castiel tells him truthfully. “There was always something missing.”

“Yeah, there was, dumbass. A raging hard-on which isn’t getting any harder while I’m standing here listening to you yammering on.” 

“Dean, you have no…”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. Dean shoves him back on the mattress and kneels between his thighs, pushing them apart none-too-gently, not that Castiel minds. Without another word he lowers his head and kisses him before trailing a line of kisses down his chest towards his groin. He licks at Castiel’s hardening cock for a few moments before sinking even lower, grabbing the legs either side of him under the knees and pushing them back as he works his tongue against his ass. 

Castiel gasps, his eyes fluttering closed against the neon-tainted darkness. He opens them again when Dean backs away, watching him squeeze the KY from the tube and onto his penis. He flinches and shivers the second it touches his skin. 

“Holy _crap_ , that’s cold. Great – now my dick feels like a popsicle.”

Castiel plucks the tube out of his hands and throws it on the floor. “Put it somewhere warm, then,” he orders him huskily.

Dean cants his head to one side, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes. His skin turns red and blue and he’s already shining with sweat, the liquid blurring the edges of the colors. For a moment, a fleeting, euphoric moment, Castiel thinks he looks good enough to eat, like candy, but the thought evaporates a second later as Dean grins at him wolfishly, lifts himself up onto his knees and pushes inside him without another word.

The last time Castiel had done this, it was with Ian-who-wasn’t-Ian back in Kansas City. He’d been high and drunk but it had still felt wrong, like an invasion, although he’d put up with it and allowed Ian… the _demon_ … to do whatever he’d wanted. This time, however, all he can think about is _Dean_ – how he hasn’t fucked anybody in over a year and a half; how he deserves this, how he deserves pleasure, because if anybody deserves to feel good in this world, it’s him. Castiel studies his face closely as he thrusts inside him, seeing how he bites his lip and closes his eyes; how his biceps firm up as he bends over Castiel’s body and braces himself on the bed, one hand each side of his partner’s shoulders. He looks down, past Dean’s shoulder, and watches his body move up and down, knees a little bent as he tries not to lie too flush against the figure beneath him. He runs his hands across Dean’s back and feels muscles flexing and stretching; relishes the heat pouring off him, so delicious in the chilly air; and after a while he feels heat building inside him, too, as his cock rubs against Dean’s belly and someplace deep inside him gets massaged by firm, pulsing flesh.

It’s only when Castiel has started to pant and writhe beneath Dean’s body, perilously close to climaxing but determined to wait until his companion is ready too, that he realizes something.

Dean isn’t looking at him. 

It’s been a while and he’s still thrusting in a measured, almost hypnotic rhythm, his head bent low over Castiel’s chest and his arms trembling as they support his weight. He’s breathing quickly and dripping sweat, every inch of him a man determined to _fuck_ and _fuck_ and _fuck_ until he gets what he wants… but there’s nothing else there, no sense that he’s enjoying it; no connection with his partner. Dean’s going through the motions, doing what he has to, but he’s not doing this _with_ Castiel. He’s doing it to him.

“Dean?” Castiel whispers, reaching up to cup his cheek, but Dean flinches away from his hand with a grunt. His movements become a little erratic and then he finds the rhythm again, hard and slow, as though he’s pacing himself somehow. It’s unsettling and Castiel doesn’t like it. 

“Look at me,” he demands, but Dean doesn’t.

Determined now, Castiel lifts one of Dean’s hands off the mattress and places his palm against his, threading their fingers together. He pushes up, supporting his weight, and thankfully Dean seems to understand what he’s doing and lifts his other hand as well. Their palms meet and suddenly Castiel’s holding him upright and Dean’s forced to look at him because they’re at eye-level, holding hands and interlocked in more than one way, keeping each other close.

To Castiel’s surprise, Dean looks a little panicky. It’s hard to tell for sure in the half-light but he looks scared, almost wild, and Castiel honestly can’t figure out why. “You’re okay,” he soothes him, for wont of anything else to do. “You’re doing great, Dean.”

“C-Cas,” Dean gasps, and closes his eyes, dropping his head again. He pumps against him, breaking that all-important rhythm, and his shoulders shake. For a moment Castiel thinks he’s finished, that he’s done, but Dean just moans and thrusts again, lowering himself until he’s lying flat on Castiel’s chest. The friction between them is suddenly intensified, doubled, tripled; it only takes two sharp movements from Dean’s lower body before Castiel can’t hold back any longer, digging his nails into Dean’s back without thinking as he bucks up against him, gasping his climax into his partner’s ear. Mindlessly, he drops his hands to Dean’s buttocks and pulls him closer, needing him to be deeper inside him even though that’s probably impossible, and Dean makes a sound that’s pure desperation as he tries to oblige.

Minutes pass. As Castiel recovers, Dean doesn’t stop. He’s still hard, there’s no denying that, but it’s been so long Castiel can’t quite believe he’s not there yet; he fucks him endlessly, his expression more miserable every time he lifts his head, and Castiel’s at a loss for what’s going on with him. Dean tangles one set of fingers in Castiel’s hair as the others brace themselves against his hip, hot and sweaty on Castiel’s bare skin, holding onto him a little harder than they should, probably leaving bruises in their wake. Castiel doesn’t mind; he likes it, but he doesn’t like Dean like this. He doesn’t like him looking so frantic when he should be filled with joy. There’s something wrong here and it’s starting to scare him.

In the end, it’s down to him. He lifts both hands to Dean’s cheeks and holds him still, staring into his eyes as the neon sign outside the window flashes on and off and coats them both in fake cheerfulness. In the end, Castiel fixes Dean with his gaze and brushes fingers under his eyes. In the end, Castiel pulls his trembling form downwards and kisses him with all the tenderness he can muster. 

In the end, Castiel says, “Let go, Dean. Please. Let go.”

And Dean does.

As soon as he’s finished he collapses with a soft sound like a whimper and buries his face in Castiel’s chest. Smiling, Castiel wraps his arms around him and strokes the hair on the back of his neck, waiting for him to recover and laugh and joke and be _Dean_ again, but instead there’s a long, deathless silence. 

Then, to his horror, Dean begins to cry.

It happens so swiftly that for a moment he thinks he’s fooling around, but before he can open his mouth to ask he feels tears hit his skin and he realizes that Dean’s not kidding. He sobs desperately against his chest, his entire body shaking as he just _loses_ it. He weeps and digs his fingers into Castiel’s shoulders like he needs to hang onto him, like he’s grounding himself, and Castiel can’t do anything except lie there and hold him as tight as he can, feeling powerless and confused because he doesn’t get this, he doesn’t get this at all. This was what Dean had wanted, surely? Why was he upset? He’d been so much better recently – barely any nightmares, cracking jokes and kicking ass and being just like the old Dean, the one Castiel had first met. What went wrong?

He stays as still as he can, holding him firmly, letting him cry it out. There’s nothing he can do. By the time Dean’s sobs have died down into choked, harsh gasps, Castiel’s heart has finally hit its normal rhythm again. 

“Sorry,” Dean croaks suddenly, sitting up. He looks away and wipes his eyes, sniffing miserably. 

“It’s okay,” Castiel replies gently.

“I’m sorry.” Dean twists so his legs are over the side of the bed and lowers his head into his hands. His body’s still shaking. Castiel sits up and runs a comforting hand down his spine, tracing vertebrae and skin, but he’s surprised when Dean flinches away from him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t touch you?”

“I don’t want your pity.” Dean’s voice is bitter.

Stung, Castiel frowns. “What do you want, then? Would you prefer it if I mocked you?”

Dean’s head snaps round and he glares at him, but it only lasts for a few seconds before his face relaxes and he sighs. “I’m tired, Cas. I’m so fucking tired of it all.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything. Dean looks across at the window and swipes at his nose with his wrist. “I’m fed up with feeling guilty, y’know? All this time… I’ve felt guilty for years, even before Lucifer and Sam and all that shit. I felt guilty for Sam not having a normal life. I felt guilty for Dad dying to save me. I felt guilty for all the people I couldn’t save. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse… God, Cas, all those people I put on the rack in Hell…”

“Dean, please. You know that wasn’t your fault.”

“It was. All of it was. I broke the first seal and look what happened.” He looks down at his hands, which are shaking in his lap. “I should have said yes to Michael. I thought I was being so clever, I really did. I thought I was making a point, that humans didn’t deserve to be pushed around and manipulated, but that was a load of crap. Nobody gave a damn about what I was trying to say. I was trying to teach the angels a lesson and instead I got millions of people killed.”

“You saved them, Dean. When it came down to it, you saved the world. Don’t you forget that.”

Dean’s face twists into a terrible smile. “I had to kill my own brother to do it. All because of my fucking _pride._ ” He looks up at Castiel. “What right do I have to feel good now, Cas? How can I be so happy with you when all those people suffered because of me? I shouldn’t have done this tonight. It’s a fucking crime, me being happy.”

Suddenly angry, Castiel takes his hand and leans closer to him. “You can’t think like that, okay? You’ll drive yourself crazy. You’ve been through so much and you need to forgive yourself. You have to. You’re worth it.” Dean goes to pull away but Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder, stilling him. “If you don’t believe it, believe me instead. You have to be happy, okay? When you’re happy, I’m happy. You know that. I can’t watch you suffer. You have to stop punishing yourself.”

Dean’s shoulders shake. “You have God again, Cas. You don’t need me any more.”

“Is that really what you think? Fuck it, Dean, are we going through this again? I’m not leaving you, okay?”

“What if the angels are coming back, too? Have you thought about that? What if your powers start coming back and you end up as an angel again? What happens to me then?”

Castiel is struck silent by that. He’d thought it, yes, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Dean would have thought it too. He should have, really. Dean wasn’t stupid.

And it was possible.

Castiel pauses and Dean’s eyes narrow as he clearly reads the silence as a confirmation. “No, Cas. You’d join them, wouldn’t you? You’d be an angel again and get forgiven and go back home?”

“No!” He says it so loudly he surprises himself. “No, Dean! I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t do that, not now. I’ve changed too much. I’ve got you now.”

“I’m not worth giving up Heaven for,” Dean says miserably. “Don’t lie to me. I’m just one guy. I’m not worth that.”

Castiel frowns. “Dean… this is hard to explain…” He looks up at the ceiling, wondering how to phrase it. “Okay, Heaven isn’t a _place_. It’s not some vast garden filled with flowers and people having picnics. It’s not a physical thing at all. It’s a feeling, Dean. It’s peace and contentment – it’s love. It’s the feeling that you’ve accomplished what you set out to do and you’re allowed to relax now. It’s _happiness_.” 

He reaches out a hand and runs it through Dean’s hair. “I don’t care if I’m an angel or not. I just know that when I’m with you, I’m happy. I don’t need Heaven. I’ve got you.”

Dean doesn’t respond. He stares at him forlornly, clearly not believing it, and Castiel is struck with the sudden urge to punch him.

“What can I do to convince you?” he says, desperate now. “I died for you, Dean. I already turned my back on Heaven once. Do you honestly think I’d change my mind now? After everything we’ve been through? After this?” He indicates the rumpled sheets around them. “After all the times I’ve been there for you, and you’ve been there for me? After watching how strong you were, and how you suffered, and how you feel now…” 

His voice cracks and he suddenly has to swallow down tears. “Dammit, Dean. Don’t you _trust_ me? After everything, do you really think I could do that to you?”

“No,” Dean says quickly. “You couldn’t. I’m… sorry. I guess I just… I can’t…”

“Forgive yourself,” Castiel urges him seriously, shaking him by the shoulders. “The whole world’s done it. Why can’t you?”

Dean pauses, his eyes wide, before saying faintly: “I want Sam to forgive me first.”

Castiel sighs. “You know he’d forgive you, Dean. Please stop torturing yourself. He’d want you to be happy. He’d want you to be happy more than anything else on Earth.”

“Then why did he let Lucifer take him? Why didn’t we talk to each other for so long before that? The last time I saw him as Sam he just got up from the bench we were sitting on and walked away. He just climbed into someone’s car and drove off. He didn’t look back once, Cas. He just went.”

“He did what he needed to do. Okay, so you have no idea what happened to him after that, but he still loved you.”

“Cas…”

“I could read people’s minds back then, Dean,” Castiel interrupts sternly. “Believe me. I could sense it every time I was near him. He loved you. He loved you then, and he’d forgive you now.”

Dean drops his eyes. He stares at the bed for a while, sniffing, radiating unhappiness. Eventually Castiel can’t help himself; he bundles him into a hug and squeezes him tight. 

“Let it go,” he tells him. 

It takes a minute or two, but hands finally settle on his back. 

“Thank you,” whispers Dean. 

Castiel holds him tighter.

Dean sniffs. “You’re really not going anywhere?”

“Nowhere except around the bend trying to get through to you.”

Dean shakes a little, like he’s laughing, before pulling away. They kiss for a moment before Dean suddenly looks awkward. “I promise I won’t cry like a girl next time we have sex,” he says brokenly. “That was, uh, kind of a one-off.”

Castiel nods somberly. “Glad to hear it. I thought you were commenting on my performance. Hurts a guy’s feelings.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel’s brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror the next morning when Dean comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his body, squeezing him close and resting his chin on Castiel’s shoulder. “Mornin’,” he sighs, and rubs his groin against Castiel’s ass to show that he’s awake in more ways than one. 

“Woke up with a smile, did we?” Castiel asks through a mouthful of toothpaste, raising his eyebrows as his lowers his toothbrush. Dean answers by twisting his head round and kissing him, toothpaste and all, before nudging him forwards against the basin. Shocked, Castiel realizes what he wants to do and snorts. 

“Seriously?”

“Never been more serious in my life, Cas,” Dean murmurs, and for the next ten minutes all Castiel can taste is peppermint as his partner bends him over and makes the most of his new-found morning joy.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They’re driving down some random road in the middle of nowhere, Castiel trying to program numbers into his new cellphone and wondering why the hell it’s so fiddly, when Dean suddenly pulls off the hardtop and drives along an old dirt track until they’re out of sight. 

“What are you doing?” Castiel queries, looking around them.

“Get out of the car,” Dean says in a voice that’s deeper than usual. Castiel watches as he opens the door and steps onto the grass before putting down the phone and following him, absolutely baffled. He hasn’t walked more than a few feet before Dean turns, grabs him by the shoulders and slams him against a tree. He kisses him like he’s _starving_ , grinding their crotches together persuasively; it’s all Castiel can do not to moan at the suddenness, the sheer, unexpected surprise of it. And then Dean yanks him round and presses his chest against the tree, the rough bark digging into Castiel’s cheek as he stiffens in shock.

“Seriously?” he gasps, stunned, as Dean reaches around to undo his jeans for him.

“Never been more serious in my life, Cas,” Dean growls in his ear, and they fuck against the tree without any niceties, fast and wild and painful. When Castiel comes, he actually screams.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The sky’s a solid mass of red sunset and silver clouds and Castiel’s still picking splinters out of his palms when Dean elbows him in the side. Castiel glances ahead of them at the road, thinking he’s drawing his attention to something, but the traffic’s moving along steadily and there’s nothing unusual beyond the windshield. He turns to look at his companion, who simply grins and points down at his crotch. Which is, in turn, pointing _up_ beneath his pants.

“Wanna do something about that?” Dean asks him cheerily.

“Seriously?”

“Never been more serious in my life, Cas.”

Castiel sighs. “No.”

Dean’s face falls. “Run that past me again? You bashful all of a sudden?”

“You’re driving, Dean. I’m not dying in a fiery wreck just because you wanted a blowjob.”

Dean shrugs. “Hey, I can multi-task.”

“No way. It’s a stupid idea.”

“I thought you were all for experimenting?”

“With sex, yes. With death… not so much.”

Dean shakes his head seriously. “You disappoint me, man. You really disappoint me. You think you know a guy…”

“Pull off the road and I’ll do it, but it’s a big, fat ‘no’ until then.”

Dean pulls off the road so fast Castiel has to grip the dash to steady himself. The car rolls to a halt outside an abandoned gas station and Dean turns off the engine and turns to him, his eyes shining. “Deal,” he declares, as though Castiel hadn’t already figured it out.

Castiel looks around them. There’s no one about but they’re still a little too exposed for his liking. The cars roaring by on the freeway are going too fast to be a problem, but if someone should stumble across them…

“Cas? Sometime this century would be nice.”

 _What the hell,_ he thinks. 

Ten minutes later there’s a knock at the window. He lifts his head, startled, to see a cop gazing in at them with a seriously pissed-off look on his face.

“Oops,” says Dean. 

He zips himself up hastily and lowers the window, putting on his most winning friendly grin, while Castiel sits up beside him and wonders if it’s possible to actually die from embarrassment. Then he sees Dean’s hand slip into the pocket of his coat and realizes he’s getting the knife ready in case the policeman’s a demon. Sometimes it amazes him how together Dean can be, even at a time like this, so soon after having someone’s mouth around his dick. Maybe he can multi-task after all.

“Can I ask what you gentlemen think you’re doin’ out here?” the cop asks, although it’s pretty clear he knows exactly what they were up to. It’s not like he hadn’t just seen it with his own eyes.

“Er, we were arguing over a map?” Dean offers tentatively.

“Funniest map I’ve ever seen,” the policeman sniffs, pulling out a notebook. There’s no doubt he’s the real thing. Even a demon couldn’t project this much smug arrogance.

Dean looks round at Castiel and shrugs. “I guess we’re busted.”

“Thanks for giving me a criminal record,” Castiel glares back, although they both know it doesn’t matter –they have fake ID, fake addresses, fake everything. Hell, Dean even has a fake face. Which suddenly makes Castiel catch his breath, because all the photos on his ID are of Dean, not the guy the witch conjured up…

“I’ll need to see your driver’s details,” asks the lawman, reaching a hand into the car. Castiel sees his own thought flash across Dean’s face and winces, knowing that the only way they’ll get through this now is if they overpower the cop and hightail it out of there. Awkward, but necessary. 

But then something happens neither of them expect. The policeman bends down to look inside the car again and he freezes as soon as his eyes hit Castiel’s face. He blinks, frowning, before tilting his head and asking, “Don’t I know you?”

Castiel swallows hard. “I’m not sure.”

The cop stares at him a little longer. Then his eyes widen and he gasps, “You’re that angel guy, aren’t ya? Holy crap!”

 _Dammit._ Dean shoots him an annoyed look as Castiel frowns. The glamor hadn’t worked after all. He still looks like himself; this is the first time someone’s recognized him in a few weeks, but it’s finally happened. The spell failed. He lets the disappointment sink in while he wonders how to react to the policeman’s question. Should he deny it? Can he get away with pretending he isn’t the ex-angel everybody’s talking about?

“I can’t believe it’s really you. Of all the goddamn crazy things to happen…” The cop pauses, his face twisting in something resembling shame. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to cuss just then. You must hear it a lot, I guess, with people taking the Lord’s name in vain all over the place.”

“No, er, that’s fine,” Castiel says uncertainly, as Dean raises his eyebrows at him. 

The cop looks as though he wants to crawl down a hole and disappear. He opens and closes his mouth, flicking his eyes from Castiel to Dean nervously. “I, uh, I guess I can let this go, then,” he mutters, after a few moments. “This, uh, isn’t really somethin’ I should write up. Not when it’s _you_.”

It’s clear the policeman is trying to come to terms with the idea of an angel dishing out a blowjob to a guy. Castiel has absolutely no idea what to say except “Thank you,” but Dean has other ideas.

“I’m teaching him to be human,” he announces, grinning as the cop blinks at him. “He’s experiencing all the sins of mankind so he can go back to Heaven and tell all the other angels how wanton and wicked we are.”

Castiel can’t hit him without the cop seeing, so he settles with pinching him on the outer thigh instead, his fingers hidden by Dean’s coat. Dean jerks but doesn’t take his eyes off the policeman for a second.

“That’s, uh, a good idea,” the poor sap agrees, nodding his head. He looks so out of his depth it’s hilarious; suddenly Castiel has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The cop turns away, looking a little dazed, before turning back and frowning at them. “You know, I’ve got orders. I’m supposed to find that Winchester guy. Do you know where he is?”

Castiel goes cold. He keeps his eyes off Dean and says with as much innocence as he can muster, “I haven’t seen him in a year. Why? What’s he done?”

The cop shakes his head. “No idea. The higher-ups want him bad, though. There are APBs all over the country for him.”

“If you give us your details, we’ll let you know if we hear from him,” Dean says in a voice that sounds totally normal, except that Castiel could drown in the tension beneath it. He watches as the cop gives him his badge and phone number, then tries to look as innocent as possible as the guy leans down and nods at him. 

“It’s important we find him,” he says. “Make sure you keep me posted.”

“Will do,” Castiel grits out.

“It was, uh, nice meeting ya.” Hesitating a little, the cop backs away and walks over to his car. He climbs inside and stares at them for a short while, his expression blank, and then they watch him leave in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. 

After a few minutes Dean turns to him and sighs. “So there are demons issuing orders to the police now, huh?”

“It makes sense, I guess. Infiltrating the chain of command to get what they want. They’ve done it before.”

“Why the hell do they want me, Cas? I thought they were after revenge, but something about this is getting seriously creepy. Why are they so desperate now, after so long? They weren’t this thorough a few months ago.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’ve got no idea.”

Dean looks down at the wheel and fires up the engine. “This is really starting to tick me off,” he grunts, pulling out onto the road. Then he shoots Castiel a glance and his face creases into a smile. “You’ve got something on your chin.”

Castiel lifts a hand and wipes at the stickiness on his skin. “Thanks for telling me, idiot,” he scolds Dean, suddenly mortified. It had been there the whole time. _Gross._

“My pleasure,” Dean replies smoothly, stretching his arms out on the wheel. “Pain in the ass.”

 

~ ~ ~


	9. Chapter 9

_9\. South Dakota_

 

 

Castiel tries his damnedest to keep Dean from hearing the news, but he can’t. There are only so many times he can turn off a TV set or move a newspaper away from him, and when it comes to the internet he’s helpless. Dean sits down with his laptop in a diner in Connecticut and by the time Castiel returns to the table with their coffees he’s scowling so hard Castiel knows he’s found out without even having to ask.

“Did you hear about Boston?”

Suppressing a sigh, Castiel pulls out his chair and drops into it listlessly. “What about it?” he replies, deciding that pretending he doesn’t already know is the best approach.

Dean shakes his head, unable to tear his eyes from the screen. “Their water supply got poisoned. Turns out it happened a couple of years ago and nobody knew. All this time, everybody’s been drinking contaminated water, and they’ve been getting sicker and sicker.” He looks up at him, his cheeks paling. “Kids have been dying.”

“That’s terrible.”

Dean swallows and looks back down at the screen. “They only just realized what it was – they thought it was an offshoot of the Croatoan virus. It’s taken them three years to figure out that it wasn’t a virus at all. It’s the reservoir.”

Castiel gazes into his coffee. “What happened to it?”

Dean looks up at him from under his lashes. “The main reservoir feeding Boston is the Quabbin Reservoir. But I guess you already knew that.”

Castiel looks up at the ceiling, bracing himself. “Dean…”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

“I was trying to stop you from doing your usual thing.”

“My usual thing?”

“Feeling guilty.” Castiel meets his eyes. “Come on, Dean. Don’t start this. You couldn’t have known this would happen and neither could I.”

Dean opens his mouth to shout at him before glancing around at the half-full diner and closing it again. With a struggle, he controls himself and clears his throat before gritting out, “We killed Pestilence and watched him sink into that reservoir. We should have known this would happen. He was one of the Four Horsemen and he was fucking _Pestilence._ Of course he was going to poison the water!”

“He was dead.”

“Well, apparently he’s the Horseman who just keeps on giving.”

“Dean, we were trying to kill Lucifer back then. We didn’t have time to think about the future. It didn’t even look like there’d _be_ a future.”

“We should have used our heads, Cas!” Dean hisses. “Cleaned up after ourselves! We should have looked at the bigger picture!”

“And how were we supposed to do that when we were fighting for our lives?” Castiel drops his voice and leans towards him. “We didn’t have time to stay there. Don’t you remember? There were demons in the next town and they were slaughtering hundreds of people. We didn’t have a spare second to sit down and wonder what was going to happen years in the future.”

“You should have seen it coming,” Dean says obstinately. “You were still pretty much an angel back then – you hadn’t gone fully human. You must have known he’d poison the water.”

Castiel sits back, shocked. “You think I knew and didn’t say anything?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. You were a freakin’ know-it-all. It wouldn’t have surprised me.”

Castiel just stares at him. That _hurt._

Dean can’t meet his eyes as he looks away and says gruffly, “Or maybe you were just too drunk to figure it out.”

“That’s…” Castiel has to swallow before he can continue. “Dean, that’s not fair and you know it.”

“All those people, Cas,” Dean hisses, slamming the computer shut and making a waitress jump as she strolls past them. “Over a hundred kids have died! Thousands more are sick! All because we didn’t do our job!”

Castiel scowls at him, pissed. “Stop talking to me like it’s my fault. I feel bad too, you know.”

Dean studies him for a few seconds before leaning back in his seat and running a hand down his face. “It’s never going to end, is it? We’re going to be running and fighting and picking up the pieces until we die. There’s going to be tornadoes and hurricanes and plagues and death and we can’t do jack-shit about any of it.”

“Lucifer’s actions will continue to have repercussions. We can’t pretend to be surprised about it.” Castiel shakes his head, hating that it’s true, but at least he has hope now. “You need to have faith, Dean,” he tells him earnestly. “This won’t last forever.”

“Screw faith,” Dean hisses, and his words actually make Castiel flinch. “So your beloved God is back again? Well, whoop-de-do. Nice of Him to step in and save those kids, wasn’t it?”

Castiel narrows his eyes and glares at him. “For all we know, He could have saved the entire population of Boston. Only a few have died instead of hundreds of thousands.”

“Nice of Him to pick and choose. Did He fancy ganking some kids this week, is that it? Thought He’d get his jollies disposing of a few babies?”

Castiel hisses and gets to his feet. “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand, Dean,” he growls, and turns to leave. 

As he opens the door and the cold night air hits him, he hears Dean yell, “Screw you, too!”

They rent separate rooms that night for the first time ever.

 

~ ~ ~

 

There’s an uneasiness between them the next day, one that neither of them seems willing to break. They drive silently from town to town following up on some leads about a possible werewolf, but their minds aren’t really on the hunt. Dean plays terrible, blasphemous music as loudly as he can on the rental car’s stereo, making Castiel grit his teeth and think back to the Toyota they’d left in the creek in Tennessee. That hadn’t even had a radio. Bliss. 

He tries to block out the racket by praying, closing his eyes and letting his mind float away, the silver cross gripped between his thumb and forefinger. But he can’t concentrate; all he can think about is the fact that his faith makes Dean angry. His faith makes Dean jealous, too, not to mention insecure. God shouldn’t come between them like this. It’s wrong. Dean can’t see it, but if he could only _believe_ in something, it would make all the difference to his life.

If only Dean could believe in himself, at least. That would be a start.

That evening, Dean sits cross-legged on his single bed on the other side of the room and surfs the internet for hours. When he speaks, it’s a grunt or a monosyllabic reply to something Castiel asks him. He’s absorbed in his computer and there’s nothing Castiel can do about it, so he climbs into bed, tucks the pillow around his head and leaves him to it.

“We need to go to Bobby’s,” Dean tells him the next morning, but he doesn’t explain why when Castiel asks.

~ ~ ~

 

They drive up to South Dakota and their mood worsens as they enter Bobby’s now almost-ruined house, stepping around the piles of fallen timber and bricks that are lying in the doorway. The building seems to have been used as a home for squatters since they were last here, but it can’t have been a nice place to live: the roof’s half gone, probably blown off in one of the massive storms in the months following Lucifer’s death, and everything in the building is damp and covered in mold. 

It doesn’t feel like Bobby’s house at all. Castiel shivers as he looks around him, remembering how they’d stayed here in the months leading up to Sam’s possession. Dean had been at the lowest they’d ever seen him and he and Bobby had worked hard to keep him focused, but things had been bad. And that had also been the time when Castiel had started to drink. Bobby had encouraged him at first, mainly because it had been something amusing to distract Dean with – his first attempts at inebriation must have been entertaining to watch, not that he could remember them – but then Bobby had backed off once he’d realized he was creating a monster. Nobody could have anticipated quite how much a slowly-falling angel would like getting trashed, least of all the angel himself.

Then the army had arrived and only two of them had made it out alive. Damn soldiers, seeing Croats everywhere they looked. They’d probably killed thousands of uninfected people as they’d rampaged around the country. Castiel can’t even bring himself to think about that night, so he shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath and looks around the chaos of Bobby’s living room.

“What are we searching for?” he asks.

Dean kicks through a pile of trash. “Books. Anything we can salvage, although I had no idea they’d be so…” He stares down at a circle of charred floorboards and sighs. “Dammit. I think whoever lived here burnt most of them. Maybe this is a waste of time.”

Castiel trails his fingers through the pages of a musty magazine about guns and throws Dean a questioning look. “Are you ever going to tell me what you’re doing?”

His companion puts his hand on his hips and lowers his head, puffing out a breath of air before looking up again. “What would demons want with Sam’s body?”

“That’s what this is about?”

Dean shrugs. “I think they took him, Cas. We were supposed to think it was a bunch of angry humans but they made it look as though it was. They faked all that graffiti around his grave so nobody would realize they’d stolen his body.” He tugs on the amulet around his neck. “How else could that demon have been wearing this?”

Castiel nods slowly. “I think you’re right. Sam’s remains hold a lot of power. They’d want to access it.”

Anger flashes across Dean’s face. “You didn’t think to mention that before?”

“We thought humans had taken him. This is different.”

Dean doesn’t look happy, but he bites back a retort and asks, “What kind of power?”

Castiel hesitates. “I don’t really know. But he was a vessel and he held Lucifer. That’s a lot of… I suppose you’d call it residual mystical energy. Sam’s body will have absorbed some of it. What a demon wants with that – there’s no way of telling. We need to find out.”

Dean looks around them. “Bobby had a book for _everything_. We just have to find the right one.”

They stare at the empty bookshelves and the reams of moldy, wet, disintegrating paper littering the filthy floor, peppered with rat droppings and crawling with slugs.

“This is gonna be a laugh-a-minute,” Dean grumbles.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They can’t salvage much. Nothing that relates to what they’re looking for, at least, and after a few hours they give up. They head into the tangled weeds and long grass by the side of the house and stand over Bobby’s grave for a while, paying their respects, and neither of them says a word as they climb into the car.

They drive until evening sets in, and then Dean announces that he’s starving and they pull up outside a bar and grill; Castiel’s too tired to object about the fact the place serves alcohol. Dean’s been amazing for months, keeping him away from any place that could tempt him, but for all his thoughtfulness he’s not a saint. If he wants to drink tonight, Castiel can’t stop him. Particularly now, when he’s so _angry_. This is the Dean he knew at Camp Chitaqua all over again. That Dean was around for a long time, so it stands to reason he’ll pop up every now and then: it’s just something Castiel has to accept. He doesn’t have to like it, though.

They order burgers and fries and eat in silence, Castiel’s eyes looking everywhere except at the beer beside Dean’s plate. The bar’s noisy and colorful, filled with smoke and vibrancy. There’s a fair cross-section of life under the roof, from teenagers trying to look older than they are with poorly-made fake IDs to old-timers drinking alone in the corners. Castiel studies them all, drinking in humanity instead of drinking in what he really wants to drink in.

“You cool?” Dean asks him after a while, not looking up from his plate.

“In what sense?” Castiel replies.

Dean shrugs and picks up his last fry. “I dunno. You. Me. Us. It’s been kind of weird the last few days.”

Castiel pushes his half-eaten meal away and picks up his Coke. “Yeah,” he mutters, but doesn’t elaborate.

Dean lifts his head and studies him. “I wish I could feel the way you do, Cas. I really do. But I can’t force it. It’s just not in me.”

He’s talking about God. Castiel nods and manages to summon up a small, rueful smile as he trails a finger down the side of the glass in his hand. “I think I finally realize that now, yes.” He raises his eyes and fixes Dean with a stern look. “But you can’t keep insulting Him around me. I know it doesn’t mean anything to you, but He’s my Father, Dean. It hurts when you accuse Him of not caring. I know He’s not perfect – He went away, He doesn’t explain Himself – but He’s still my Creator. _Our_ Creator.”

Dean snorts. “Are you sure you’re not talking about my dad?”

“I am talking about your dad.”

“Not in that sense, doofus. I meant _my_ dad. John Winchester. He was an ornery son of a bitch as well. He never told us a damn thing when we were growing up and he was always leaving us with no explanation, just coming and going like he took it for granted that we’d always be there waiting for him. That we could hold down the fort without him.” He chuckles. “I hated him sometimes, but Jesus, if anybody ever said a bad word about him I’d have kicked their ass. And I did. Many times.”

Castiel stares down at his Coke, watching the bubbles burst on the surface of the liquid. “Do you think we’re wrong to love our fathers so much?” he asks tentatively, frowning. “I stopped, for a while… back in Kansas City, when I was using, He didn’t seem real any more. I lost Him completely. Nicola was like a lifeline, always there, trying to get me to love Him again… But it wasn’t enough. I felt…”

Dean raises an eyebrow when he doesn’t finish the sentence. “You felt what?”

Castiel feels terrible just saying it. “Free.”

Dean stares at him contemplatively before quirking a grin. “Of course you did. You were a teenager.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“We all do it, Cas. We hit a certain age and suddenly it’s all about the rebellion, about getting out from under our parents’ thumbs. That’s what happened to you. You flew the coop, had some wild times, discovered that life sucks when nobody’s looking out for you and came home with your tail between your legs.”

Castiel thinks he’s supposed to laugh at the analogy, but he’s too busy thinking it over. “You may have something there.”

“And now look at you,” Dean observes, leaning across and slapping him good-naturedly on the forehead. “You’re all grown up with a job and a relationship. All you need now is a pet dog, a couple of kids and a pair of comfy slippers and you’re all set for middle age.”

“So are you,” Castiel reminds him, not quite comfortable with that image.

Dean laughs at that. “Yeah, I guess so. Except that sounds like Hell, so maybe I’ll take a raincheck on the slippers.”

“So I assume you’re Castiel, then.”

Startled, they both look up at the woman suddenly standing beside their table. She’s staring at them confidently, a filled shot glass held in her hand, a small smile quirking her lips. She’s about Dean’s age and has dark hair swept back in a pony tail, brown eyes and a well-proportioned face. She’s wearing a red checked shirt and a pair of jeans that have seen better days, but despite her lack of makeup and frills she’s more attractive than most of the other women in the bar, mostly because she doesn’t look like she gives a damn.

 _Hunter,_ Castiel thinks. And then he thinks, _Who could also be a demon_ and he instinctively backs away from her, watching Dean reach for his knife out of the corner of his eye.

“Relax, soldiers,” she drawls, holding out her arm to show an anti-demon ward tattooed on her wrist. “I’m human.”

“You’ll forgive us for being a little suspicious,” Dean points out, curling his lip. 

“Can’t say I blame you,” she shrugs. “It’s not like we haven’t learned the hard way that you can’t even trust a fucking nun these days. Or the President of the United States, although I wouldn’t have trusted her even if there hadn’t been an apocalypse going down.” 

“Who are you?” Castiel asks tightly.

The woman sits herself beside Dean – ignoring the fact he tenses and doesn’t move to make it easier for her – and places her glass on the table. She snags a fry from Castiel’s plate, eats it and reaches for the salt. She pours a sprinkling on the back of her hand.

“First off, I’ll just drink this,” she announces. She licks the salt off her skin and downs her tequila with a grimace. “Whoa, _strong._ Okay, now show me a demon that’ll do that.”

Dean smirks. “Okay, so you’re not a demon. I’m guessing you’re a hunter.”

“Bingo. Name’s Eloise. I don’t know you, but I know him.” She nods across at Castiel. “You’re a hard ex-angel to track down, aren’t you?”

“Depends who’s looking for me,” Castiel says abruptly. 

Eloise grins. “We haven’t really been looking for _you_. It’s your buddy Dean we want. He’s in a shitload of trouble and we want to help him, but he’s dropped off the radar. Is he dead or just lying low?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell a woman I’d just met in a bar,” Castiel replies warily.

“Of course you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t expect you to. But you can give him a message, can’t you?”

Castiel doesn’t say anything. She watches him with amusement in her eyes and turns to Dean. “Does he always look like that?”

“Like what?” Dean frowns.

“Like he’s deciding whether to smite me or fuck me.”

Castiel blinks in shock as Dean snorts. “You really say what you’re thinking, don’t you?”

She shrugs. “No point beating around the bush when life’s so short, guys. Can you get a message to Winchester or not?”

Castiel meets Dean’s gaze and reads _humor her_ in his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “What do you want him to know?”

With that, Eloise’s shoulders slump and she looks deathly serious, all traces of bravado disappearing. “Tell him that while he’s doing his impression of the Invisible Man, his friends are dying.”

Nobody says anything. Castiel can’t even look at Dean. Eloise flicks her eyes to each of their faces and smiles sadly. “Yeah, you really didn’t have a clue, did you? He’s the guy every demon in the world seems to want to find right now, and they don’t care who they torture to do it. My friend Tamara barely escaped with her life last month after they grabbed her, and all they wanted to know was ‘Where’s Waldo Winchester?’ She hadn’t even seen him for years.”

Dean looks down at the table. “I didn’t know he knew a Tamara,” he says carefully.

“Apparently they took on the Seven Deadly Sins together. Sounded like a good fight to me, if you excuse the fact they made her husband drink a bottle of kitchen cleaner and then rode around in his dead body for a while.”

Dean closes his eyes and Castiel can tell he can remember Tamara now. “Was she okay?” he asks on his behalf.

Eloise sniffs. “Let’s just say she’ll never limbo again. Or walk, for that matter. But she’s alive. And mad. We keep hearing about others being interrogated too, and most of them don’t make it. All for a man who hasn’t shown his face in a year and a half.”

“He’s been busy,” Dean grits out.

“Yes, we all know the story. Can’t have been easy, killing his own brother like that.” Utterly unaware that the man she’s talking about is sitting beside her, she fixes Castiel with her gaze. “But now he needs to get over it and face the world again. The demons want him and nobody knows why. It’s nothing good – they want him alive, not dead. That reeks of ‘big fucking evil plan’ to me. The longer he stays underground, the more desperate these demons are getting.” She picks up her empty shot glass and leans back in the seat. “I’m thinking it’s not going to take them long to start murdering innocent people. They’ll be taking towns to ransom. We know how their minds work. They’ll do anything to get him to give himself up.”

Dean doesn’t speak. Castiel regards him for a few moments and sighs, fisting a hand on the table. “I’ll tell him,” he promises. “He didn’t know. We didn’t know.”

“Good,” she replies, grinning warmly. “That’s all we wanted to hear.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Dean asks, his voice like gravel.

Eloise shrugs. “The hunting community. The ones who made it through, anyway. There’s probably about fifty of us left between here and Canada and we’ve been keeping in touch online. Some of those fansites and newsgroups out there full of Winchester worship belong to us, but we’re well-hidden if any demons come investigating. It’s hard to tell us apart from all the teenybopper girlies who think Dean’s hot cause he’s Shia LaBeouf.” She waggles her eyebrows at Castiel. “Or that you’re hot cause you’re a mess of squishy angel angst. Nobody gave a damn about you at first, but then word got out that you holed up somewhere and became a drug addict and hit rock-bottom until you found God again. Makes for a good story. You’re a full-on tragic hero now.”

Castiel catches his breath. “I’m glad my misery entertains others,” he hisses, offended. The way she’d said all that – as though it had never really happened to him, as though it was just a story… it was almost cruel. He looks up at Dean, to find him staring at him with understanding in his eyes. For the first time he thinks he knows how he must feel every time Chuck writes a sentence. 

Eloise seems totally unaware of his feelings on the matter. “Hey, you helped changed the course of human history. They’ll be writing about your martyr-like misery for centuries. If they get off on it, you’d better get used to that fast.”

“You said Dean’s friends have been killed?” Dean finally turns to look at her. “Is Carver Edlund okay?” 

Castiel catches his breath. They haven’t spoken to Chuck in over a week.

“Oh, the demons would _love_ to get their mitts on him, but he’s as hard to find as Dean is.” Eloise grins again. “According to the rumors, there are two Hollywood execs who know who he is, but nobody knows which ones. And they’re well-protected, like everybody in Hollywood these days.” She looks down at her tattoo. “These wards are fucking fabulous. Now they’ve become a fashion accessory demons everywhere are screwed. And that’s without all the salt and Devil’s Traps you’ll find littered across the land. Stands to reason it would take an apocalypse for the general population to finally wise up.”

Nobody says anything for a few moments. When the silence stretches on for too long, Eloise jumps to her feet. “Let me buy you guys a drink,” she declares. “I’ve given you the message. My work here is done. Now I wanna get drunk.”

She’s walking over to the bar before either of them can speak. Castiel watches Dean’s eyes automatically fall to her ass and feels a sudden, completely unexpected stab of jealousy, but he tamps it down inside him. Wrong time, wrong place.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, looking away as Eloise disappears into the crowd. “This is all we need.”

 _Yes, another reason for you to feel guilty,_ Castiel thinks bitterly. “What do you want to do?” he says aloud.

Dean shakes his head. “We need to find ourselves a demon and ask him what’s going on.”

“That should be simple. I’ll pick one up on the way back to the motel.”

“At least Chuck’s okay.” Dean sighs. “I wish he was still protected by Raphael, even if that guy was a first-class asshole.”

“Maybe he is. If God is back, perhaps some of the angels are back, too.”

Dean studies him suspiciously. “You’re not looking any more angelic to me. I’m guessing your powers would come back if the angels did.”

“I have no idea if that’s true.”

Dean glances across the room at Eloise, who’s leaning over the bar to point at something behind it and showing off her rear quite nicely to anybody who feels like looking. Despite everything, Castiel does have to admit that she’s pleasing to the eye. He turns back to the table and finds Dean staring at him oddly.

“Were you just checking her out?”

Castiel shrugs. “You were doing the same thing a minute ago.”

“She is kinda hot, isn’t she?” Dean smirks.

“If you like that sort of thing.”

“What, girls? Come on, Cas, I know I’ve got a reputation for being a Casanova with the ladies, but don’t you go pretending you don’t have one too.”

Castiel bites his lip and looks down at his hands. “I’ve never slept with a woman sober,” he confesses, dropping his voice. “And I don’t drink any more. Plus I’m with you now.”

Dean falls silent for a moment before saying, “You saying you don’t want us to see other people?”

But any reply is cut off as Eloise returns with three beers in her hands. “Here, drink,” she orders, placing them on the table. Castiel stares at the bottle she puts in front of him and frowns. He can feel Dean’s eyes boring into him from a few feet away, but neither of them say anything.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongues?” Eloise sits down again and undoes the knot holding her hair in place. It falls by her eyes in long curls and suddenly she looks completely different; less a hunter, more like a woman having a night out. Castiel glances at Dean and sees him smiling at her, his eyes narrowing as he sizes her up, and suddenly he realizes that there’s a beer by his hand and he’s going to damn well drink it. He’s swallowed half the bottle before Dean makes an odd, squawking sound and he lowers it to see him staring at him with wide eyes.

“What?” he asks defiantly.

Dean swallows and looks away. “Nothing.”

“So what’s your name, anyway?” Eloise asks Dean. “And how do you know Castiel?”

Dean opens his mouth to answer but his face goes a little blank as he obviously can’t think of a name fast enough. Castiel gets there first, the beer still tingling on his tongue and giving him confidence. 

“Miles,” he says.

The look of pure hatred Dean darts at him is glorious.

“Oh,” says Eloise flatly. “You don’t look like a Miles. Your parents must’ve really hated you, huh?”

“Apparently so,” Dean says tightly. “Friends, too.”

“So tell me about yourself, _Miles,_ ” Eloise coos, and Castiel could swear she’d had more shirt buttons done up when she’d arrived than she has now. Had she undone them at the bar?

“It’s a long, sad story, sweetheart,” Dean returns, and Castiel picks up his beer again and watches Dean spin a web of lies that has Eloise eating out of his hand in half an hour flat.

He’d be furiously jealous, except that after ten minutes she kicks off her shoes under the table and rests her foot on his crotch. 

Dean has to buy the next round. He’s a little indisposed.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Four beers down and Eloise and Dean are getting on famously; it’s hard to tell who’s flirting the most. Castiel joins in with gusto, trying to match Dean glance-for-glance and word-for-word, but when he finally has to leave the table to visit the bathroom he’s unsettled to discover he can’t walk straight. He looks at himself in the grubby mirror over the filthy basin and frowns, licking his lips and tasting beer.

This is not good.

He gazes down at his arms and sighs. This really isn’t good. He associates alcohol with drugs now, and he’s drunk enough for the cravings to start. He lifts his head and stares into his eyes, seeing how tired they are, and purses his lips. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be stronger.

And what was with Dean and Eloise anyway? Was Dean flirting with her just to make him jealous? Surely Dean wasn’t that childish? Although this _was_ Dean, and he could be plenty childish when he wanted to be. Eloise, meanwhile, was gleefully flirting with the both of them. The drunker she got, the more wanton she got. If Dean hadn’t been around… if this had been happening before, in Kansas City, or back at the Camp, Castiel knows he would have fucked her already by now.

He’d have been high by now, too. Sighing, he rolls down his shirt sleeves so he stops looking at his veins and heads back out into the bar.

Eloise is whispering something in Dean’s ear as he sits down and Dean’s smiling like a Cheshire Cat. He winks at Castiel and lifts his beer, laughing, looking as though he’s forgotten about their earlier miserable conversation completely. At the sight of him seeming so happy Castiel finds he doesn’t mind Eloise after all. As far as distractions go, she’s probably exactly what Dean needs right now.

“So, _Cass,_ ” Eloise says merrily, leaning across the table to pat him on the arm. “Tell me about yourself. What was it like being an angel?”

Castiel pushes his beer to one side and shrugs. “That’s like asking ‘what’s it like being human’? I just _was_.”

“Did you really have wings?” Her eyes go wide and round as she stares at him and she licks her lips unconsciously, as though wings are the hottest thing she could possibly imagine.

Her earnestness throws him a little, so he simply says, “Yes.”

“He kept them to himself, though,” Dean butts in. “I only ever saw them once.”

“I didn’t like to show off,” Castiel says flatly, before adding pointedly, “ _Miles._ ”

“What did it feel like to have wings? I can’t even imagine it.”

Castiel looks down at the table. “They were just… part of me. Like your arms and legs are a part of you. How would you describe arms to someone who doesn’t have them? It’s difficult.”

Eloise nods understandingly. “So when did you realize you were human? That must’ve been a bit of a shock.”

“It happened slowly,” Castiel replies, feeling awkward. He doesn’t like talking about this. “Every day I got a little bit weaker.”

Eloise leans back, studying him through narrowed eyes. “Guess you’re not comfortable remembering, huh? Must suck to be human after having all that power.”

“You have no idea,” Castiel sighs, looking away from them both. Suddenly he feels hot and uncomfortable. The beer isn’t sitting right in his stomach and he really wants something stronger. He wants to feel fire in his stomach and fire in his veins. He wants more than this, but he can’t have it. _He can’t._

“Do angels have sex?” Eloise asks brightly. 

“Only with the sticks up their asses,” Dean mutters beside her, and Eloise snorts. Castiel watches them grin at each other and knows he’s had enough. This isn’t funny any more. This is getting dangerous for him. He needs to get out of there.

“I’m sorry, I need some fresh air,” he says shakily, standing up and grabbing his coat. “I can’t… do this.” 

“You okay, man?” Dean asks, but Castiel doesn’t answer as he paces towards the door. He leaves the bar and gasps as freezing air hits him in the face, then looks around him to get his bearings, squinting in the glare from the streetlamps. A few seconds later he’s on his knees in the vacant lot beside the bar, puking up everything in his stomach.

When he’s done he sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of a shaking hand. He’s cleansed himself of the booze, but now he wants something else. He wants heroin. He hasn’t had a craving this strong in a while, and it’s both terrible and terrifying.

_Fuck._

“Hey,” comes a voice from behind him, and Dean’s hand is suddenly resting on his back as he leans over him. “Cas? You alright?”

Castiel laughs bitterly, allowing Dean to help him to his feet. “I’m just fantastic,” he declares. “I’m having a _brilliant_ night.”

“I didn’t know whether to stop you or not,” Dean tells him ruefully, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s not like I can throw you down and tie you up whenever someone puts a beer in front of you.”

“You’re not my mom. My mistakes are my own.” He sighs and lowers his head. “I’m so tired of this. Why is this so hard? Why can’t I just get past it?”

“You should’ve said something,” says Eloise from behind them, and they both turn to face her. She’s pulling her coat on and her face is full of guilt. “I had no idea you weren’t supposed to drink. Sorry.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who’s got a problem.”

“Alcoholic?” Eloise’s voice is matter-of-fact. Castiel nods and she grimaces. “Ouch. I suppose you’re making up for all those years you couldn’t drink when you were one of the heavenly host.”

“And then some,” Castiel agrees.

“Too bad.” She eyes him up and down speculatively. “So how drunk _are_ you?”

“Drunk enough.”

Eloise smiles, sultry and sure of herself. “In that case you won’t get offended if I ask if you fancy a threesome.”

Fingers tighten on Castiel’s shoulder, making him jump. He glances up at Dean and finds him staring at him with his eyebrows raised. He doesn’t look surprised at all. Castiel belatedly realizes that this has been on the cards all night, only he was too wrapped up in himself to notice it.

“What do you say?” Dean asks him hopefully. “Sounds like fun to me.”

Castiel flicks his gaze from him to Eloise and shrugs. “Uh,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “Sure.”

“Great,” says Eloise briskly, as though she’d known he was going to agree all along. “Let’s go. And I hope you don’t expect me to kiss you until you’ve cleaned your teeth, by the way. That’s just gross.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel cleans his teeth. When he comes out of the bathroom Dean and Eloise are already on the bed; he’s shirtless and she’s stripped down to her underwear. Castiel watches as Dean kisses her meticulously – amazingly gently, totally different to the way he kisses him, as though he’s afraid to hurt her because she’s a woman and she’s fragile – and then slips a hand inside her bra. She smiles and lies back on the bed, watching his fingers move beneath the satin, before lifting an arm and holding a hand out to Castiel.

“Come on, Cass,” she says quietly, and he tries to ignore the fact she pronounces his name wrong. “Jump in.”

He does. It’s hot and sticky and the bed’s not quite big enough. Eloise moans and wriggles and makes sounds Castiel hasn’t heard in a long while, sounds he’d forgotten that he liked. Dean can’t seem to decide whether he wants to keep his hands on her or on him and so he does both, allocating them an even amount of time as though he’s trying his damnedest to be fair. It doesn’t take long for Eloise to figure out that they’re into each other as much as they’re into her – more, in fact – and she accepts it with a gleam in her eyes that implies she finds it hot. 

Then again, she seems to find everything hot. She moans when Castiel unhooks her bra and bends to run his lips over her breasts, surprised that he enjoys the feeling so much after ages spent doing the same to a completely different, totally flat chest. She groans when Dean moves down her body, allowing Castiel room to have her top half while he slides a hand between her legs. When Dean slowly pulls off her panties she lets out a long, sated sigh and opens her legs so that he can kiss the insides of her thighs. Castiel glances up at her face and she’s got her eyes closed with an expression of total and utter contentment; it makes him smile, and he moves up and kisses her. She moans at that, too, pulling his head down when he tries to move away, her body jerking a little as Dean does something with his tongue between her legs that Castiel can’t see. 

He finally pulls away as Dean slips inside her, rolling onto his side to watch him fuck with a curiosity he wasn’t expecting. It’s odd seeing him from this angle and it gives him the chance to observe him from head to toe, admiring the way his muscles move and his skin gleams with sweat. He stares at the soft flesh of his ass moving up and down and knows that when a gasping, panting Eloise runs her fingers down his spine Dean enjoys the sensation because he likes that feeling. She does everything right – she wraps her legs around him, she licks his neck, she makes intensely erotic sounds that make Castiel harder by the second. Dean’s pace speeds up but he turns his head to gaze at Castiel when he comes, thrusting inside his partner without taking his eyes off him once. Castiel leans in to kiss him as he gasps and Eloise’s hand rests on the back of his neck as soon as he does, almost as though she’s giving them her blessing.

It’s pretty incredible. Castiel can’t deny it. He’s still half-drunk but his cravings disappear as Eloise works his dick with fingers that are a million times softer and lighter than Dean’s, despite the fact she’s a hunter and she’s lived a life as rough as his. Just before he thinks he’s going to come he reluctantly untangles her hand and rolls her over, delaying his orgasm while he massages her back. 

He runs fingers along a nasty scar down the back of one shoulder and feels her tremble beneath him. “Demon,” she explains, before he can ask. “I didn’t move fast enough.”

“That looks bad.”

She twists beneath him until she’s on her back and places a hand on his side, just under his ribs where one of Lucifer’s demons had stabbed him. “So does this,” she observes, smiling sympathetically. 

“Demon,” Castiel nods.

Eloise glances over at Dean, who’s been lying propped up on an elbow watching them both. “How about you? I can’t see any scars.”

Dean looks a little confused before remembering that the handprint on his arm is safely hidden under a glamor. “Mine are all on the inside,” he shrugs.

She laughs but Castiel doesn’t: he knows it’s true. Dean flicks his eyes to his face for a few seconds before dropping them to Eloise again and quirking a smile. “So are you lovebirds gonna get on with this or will I have to watch for another hour before I can join in again?”

At that, it transpires that Eloise has a plan. She makes Castiel lie on his back and straddles him so that she’s sitting on his lap; facing his feet rather than his face, much to his puzzlement. He gasps as he slips inside her and runs his hands down her back, resting his hands on her hips as she lets him sink up into her as far as he can go. After a few moans and some astonishingly sensual wriggles, she leans back until she’s lying against his chest and Castiel spits out a mouthful of her hair and laughs. It’s an odd position and she’s heavy but it feels good, if a little awkward.

But she hasn’t finished. She grabs Dean by the arm and says, “Get inside me, then.”

Castiel can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. _Both of them?_

“You have got to be kidding me,” Dean huffs, but he sounds pretty damn thrilled. “Really?”

Eloise gasps as Castiel shifts beneath her before replying, “Come on, Miles! When am I ever going to find two guys who are so comfortable with each other that they’ll do this? No way am I passing up this chance. Hop to it, stud.”

Dean laughs and peers behind her to meet Castiel’s eyes. A moment passes between them – a damn fine moment, if Castiel wants to be honest about it – and then Dean’s moving around so that he can kneel between two sets of legs. 

When he pushes inside her, Eloise almost screams. Castiel spits out another mouthful of hair as he groans, too, because the feel of _Dean_ sliding against him while he’s already inside her is so impossibly intense he can barely keep himself from coming. Dean starts to move, bracing his hands either side of Castiel’s shoulders and his face settling into a look of incredible concentration, and in the space of only a few minutes Eloise is trembling and moaning obscenities as she’s fucked by two men at the same time while they, in turn, rub against each other and fight for space inside her.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t last long. When Eloise climaxes, her entire body spasms so hard that Castiel can’t hold himself back. He bucks upwards, fighting the weight on top of him as he thrusts, and even through the pleasure he has a blinding sense of disappointment that this is it; it’s over. But Dean is still going and both of them wait for him, Eloise’s hands clutching his back and Castiel running his own up and down her torso, playing with her breasts and trying vainly to keep her hair away from his mouth. It tastes of mangoes, which is nice, but he’s really had enough of it by now.

He knows when Dean’s getting close. Not because he can feel it; not because he can sense the muscles in his body tensing or the small tremors running through him as the sensation grows; not because he can hear him moaning and gasping as he nears his release. No, he knows when Dean is almost there because Dean leans his head over Eloise’s shoulder and looks him right in the eyes, shoving aside a pile of hair to kiss him solidly as their three bodies rock on the bed. 

When he comes, he growls into Castiel’s mouth and it feels so good Castiel thinks he’s probably half-hard again already.

The moment Dean moves backwards, Eloise shrieks. 

She throws him to one side and springs off the bed, flying over to the door and backing against it, panting hard. Her eyes are wild with terror and she doesn’t even seem to notice that she’s naked; she’s too busy staring at Dean like she’s never seen him before. 

“Who… who are you?” she demands, and for a horrible, gut-wrenching moment, Castiel thinks she’d been possessed. He thinks he just did it again, that he fucked an innocent woman who had no control over her body, and nausea rises in his throat.

But there’d been no black smoke and nothing to suggest she’d been possessed – and besides, as they stare at her in shock, her breathing slows and she frowns, recognition flaring in her eyes.

“Oh my God,” she gasps. “You’re Dean! You’re Dean Winchester!”

Dean sits upright, frowning at her. Castiel pushes himself up onto his elbows and swallows down bile.

“What makes you say that?” Dean asks falteringly.

Eloise shakes her head. Then she barks out a laugh, looking thoroughly sheepish. “I don’t believe this. I don’t fucking _believe_ this. All this time spent searching and I go and fuck Dean Winchester and I don’t even know it. I don’t believe it!”

“Can you see him?” Castiel asks, feeling his heartbeat slow down in relief.

“Yes,” Eloise replies, taking a step forward. “I can now. I couldn’t before. One minute you were Miles and the next… wow, it’s a crying shame you’ve been covering up that face of yours. Was it a glamor?”

Dean nods, looking uncharacteristically self-conscious. “It only works on people who haven’t met me before,” he reveals. “And now I guess we know it doesn’t work on people I’ve just slept with.”

Eloise’s eyes are flicking all over his body. “I can see the tattoo now,” she says, walking over to the bed. “I might have recognized the spell if I’d seen it first. What is that rune? ‘Concealment’? And Jesus, what’s that on your arm? Did someone _brand_ you?”

“Guilty,” Castiel says in a small voice.

“What did I look like?” Dean asks with honest curiosity, and Eloise grins. 

“Hot,” she says with no preamble. “Blond hair, blue eyes – kind of Nordic, I guess. You really didn’t look like a Miles. You looked Swedish or something. And you had longer hair… I don’t understand why I could feel it when it wasn’t there. That’s some spell.” She reaches over and runs a hand through Dean’s hair, then down his chest. “You feel different. Your body was thinner. This is a total headfuck, guys.”

Dean looks a little embarrassed. “Sorry I had to lie to you. I’m sure you can understand why.”

She nods, still unable to tear her eyes away from him. “No, no, this is perfect. You did a smart thing to stay hidden.” Her face falls and she seems to come to her senses. A moment later she starts pulling on her clothes; when she speaks, her voice is all business. “I guess you had your fun, then,” she says blankly. “Now you need to get the hell out there and find out what these demons want. People are dying, Dean, and they’re dying because of you.”

Castiel places a hand on his companion’s thigh and strokes it, feeling him tense at her words. “Do you have any details?” Dean asks, sounding as though he really doesn’t want to know. “Do you have any names? Who have the demons killed so far?”

Eloise nods and pulls a notebook out of her bag. She flicks through it and tosses it across to them. “Sorry,” she says softly, sitting on a chair to tug on her boots.

It’s a list of about twenty names. Castiel reads it over Dean’s shoulder, ready to give him comfort should he need it, but what he isn’t expecting is that he’ll recognize two of the names himself.

 _Nicola Duttine,_ it says halfway down the list.

And at the end it says, _Amelia Novak._

 

~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

_10\. On the road_

 

 

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Dean’s expression doesn’t change as Castiel spits out the word with uncharacteristic venom. He merely puts the Colt on the table by his side and watches him pace, his forehead furrowed with worry as Castiel finishes a circuit of the warehouse. He stands still for a few seconds, panting, and kicks out at a chair. The sound of it hitting the concrete floor echoes harshly off the walls.

Before the noise has even died away Castiel resumes his pacing. Up, down. Up, down. He’s angry. No, scratch that: he’s _furious_.

“Fuck!” he swears again, and storms over to the window. He leans on the sill and stares out into the weak morning sunlight, not even seeing the row of burnt-out buildings beyond the filthy pane. He’s too busy feeling helpless. Useless. _Guilty._ He’s barely stopped feeling this way for three weeks now and it’s not getting any better.

_He should have done something to save them._

“Hey,” Dean says just behind him. A hand strokes down his back and fingers close on his wrist, pulling him away from the window. He twists round and Dean stares deeply into his eyes, his expression deathly serious as he tightens his grip on his arm.

“You need to stop doing this to yourself,” Dean instructs him somberly. “This is driving you nuts, Cas. This isn’t you. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“We need to stop _this,_ Dean,” Castiel snaps, jerking his wrist away. 

Dean nods. “And we will, but you need to calm down, man, or you’ll be no good to anybody. All this guilt isn’t going to achieve anything. Punishing yourself isn’t a solution.”

“You think so, huh? Hypocrite. You should listen to your own advice for once.” Castiel watches Dean flinch at his words and looks away, mind racing. He stares over at the dead demon and scowls. “What are they so afraid of? Why won’t they tell us anything?”

Dean follows his gaze. “They’re obviously willing to die for it.”

This is the third demon they’ve interrogated since the night with Eloise, and through both her and the hunter network they’ve heard of at least four more demons being captured and questioned across the country. Not one of them has said a word about their plans. Even when Dean finally turned to torture the demons didn’t break. He’d set about his task with all the grim determination he’d used in the months leading up to Lucifer’s defeat, but these demons either knew nothing or were too strong to crack.

They couldn’t exorcise them once they were finished, either; the demons had seen Dean’s fake face. They had to die, which meant that their hosts had to die, too. Castiel had taken the Colt – freshly retrieved by Dean from wherever he’d stashed it over the last year and a half – and had used it to shoot all three of them in the head, fully aware that he’d killed hundreds, maybe even thousands of demons in his lifetime by burning them out of their poor human shells without a second thought. What difference did a few more make now? He barely even felt a twinge of guilt. 

Dean couldn’t bring himself to do it. Once upon a time the knowledge would have brought Castiel relief – it was a sign that Dean wasn’t that soulless, hellbent revenge-seeker he’d once been. Now he doesn’t really care: all he cares about is revenge. Something about that is terrible, but he’s too wound up to give it much thought.

 _They’d killed Nicola._ Beautiful, gentle Nicola, who’d saved his life and seen the best in him even when there’d been nothing good left inside him at all. Poor Nicola, barely even an adult and dead at the hands of a vicious group of demons who’d cornered her not far from her father’s church. Castiel knows he should call Father Duttine to offer his condolences, to say he’s sorry, to _apologize_ , but he can’t. He isn’t even capable of talking about it. He’s too angry. Eloise gave him the details of Nicola’s final hours – as far as the hunters who investigated her death could piece together, at least – and since then Castiel has felt nothing but blind, white-hot rage mingled with revulsion.

And as for Amelia…

He can’t even put that loss into words. His dreams do it for him. Whatever part of this body once belonged to Jimmy Novak mourns his dead wife harder than anything Castiel has ever known, and it happens while he sleeps; some deep, desperate, lingering subconscious wellspring of emotion inside him coming to the fore as nightmares. He’s woken up sobbing every night since he found out about her death. Dean can’t comfort him; nothing can comfort him, only daylight and the knowledge that he’s not really Jimmy any more. He’s Castiel. He’s the bastard that got her killed in the first place.

Yeah, some comfort.

Nobody knows where Jimmy’s daughter is. The fact that she’s vanished has to be a good sign, though; perhaps she escaped and went underground. She’s probably hiding somewhere. Safe. Castiel hopes so with all his heart, because Claire was special. 

“Whatever it is they’re protecting, it’s big,” Dean muses, rubbing his cheek. The demon had hit him hard when they’d taken him down. He’ll have a bruise there tomorrow.

“So it’s big. Great.” Castiel’s tone is pure acid. “That doesn’t help us any.”

Dean frowns at him and shakes his head. “Seriously, Cas. Bring it down a few notches. You’re going to burn out at this rate.”

Castiel laughs darkly. “Yeah, that’s all I need. Advice on how to handle guilt and rage from _you._ ”

“Hey!” Dean takes him by one shoulder and shakes him. “Cut it out, okay? I’m trying to help. I feel this just as bad as you do. I lost friends too.”

Most of the people on the list had been innocent victims Dean had once saved or random hunters he’d met on his travels. None of the names had seemed to cause him too much despair, however, possibly because most of the people Dean really cares about are already dead. But he still feels terrible, of course, only his guilt is vastly overshadowed by Castiel’s own for once.

“I promised Jimmy I’d look after his wife,” Castiel says bitterly. “And do you know the last time I thought about her? When I was still an angel. It’s been _that long_. I promised him and I let her die.”

“Cas…” Dean’s eyes flash with empathy, but Castiel won’t let him speak.

“Nicola was innocent until she met me,” he growls. “I corrupted her and I got her killed and I will never, _ever_ forgive myself for that. You want me to calm down? To forget about it? Not until we stop these demons, Dean. We need to find out what they want and we need to kill them all.”

Dean raises his hands placatingly. “I know, I know. You don’t have to tell me, Cas. I get it. But you’ve got to be realistic here. We’re stuck. Short of me appearing on TV and giving myself up to them, we can’t do a damn thing.”

Castiel pulls away from his hand and walks over to the dead man tied to the chair. He crouches beside him, staring at him intently, and goes through his pockets. Nothing. The man’s eyes stare lifelessly at the ceiling and Castiel wonders if he’d been dead before the gunshot or if he really had killed him. At least he wasn’t possessed any more. He couldn’t hurt anybody else. One less demon in the world wasn’t a bad thing.

 _I’m so tired,_ he thinks, and stands again. He leaves the warehouse without another word. Dean follows, but he leaves a respectable distance between them, almost as though he’s scared of him or something.

~ ~ ~

He wakes up screaming Amelia’s name, shaking and crying with a grief that isn’t his own. Dean’s there in an instant, holding him and shushing him and telling him that everything’s going to be alright, but Castiel can only feel a groundswell of love inside him for a woman he never really knew. He wonders if Jimmy’s still in this human body of his in other ways, too, or whether his love for his wife is the only part of him that remains, as though it’s been lying coiled in his DNA just waiting to make itself known.

“It’s okay,” Dean whispers in his ear, nuzzling at his neck. “It’s okay, Cas. You’re okay.”

Castiel clings onto him and wonders if he’d feel as bad as this if anything happened to Dean. He wonders if he could feel any worse. 

He has a horrible feeling he could.

~ ~ ~

The lack of sleep starts to become a problem. Dean snores through many of Castiel’s nightmares but as the days pass Castiel grows increasingly exhausted from his sleepless nights. He can’t concentrate on anything except that growing, bitter desire for revenge, and he finds himself falling asleep as Dean drives and waking up stiff and aching with his stomach churning in grief, not rested in the slightest. 

Dean is quiet. Probably too quiet, really, so much so that Castiel knows there’s stuff going on with him, but he’s too focused on his own feelings to care. This is the very first time he’s understood exactly how Dean must have felt after killing Sam. He’d thought he had: he’d felt guilt himself over letting Sam out of Bobby’s cellar and unleashing him on Lilith, something he still hasn’t summoned up the courage to tell Dean about. But nothing has ever felt as personal as this. Two women are dead because of him: two women who’d believed in him in their own vastly different ways; two women who’d meant a lot to both himself and the man whose body he’d stolen and made his own. 

The guilt is overwhelming. Castiel finds himself thinking that if Dean had felt anything like this after Sam’s death, it’s a miracle he hadn’t killed himself. But at least Castiel hadn’t had to watch Nicola and Amelia die in front of him; Dean had actually _killed_ Sam. 

Castiel finally understands just how that must have felt.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Capturing and interrogating demons isn’t getting them anywhere. After a month Eloise calls to say that the hunters’ grapevine has gone dead. Her prediction that the demons were going to make some kind of move to bring Dean out of the woodwork doesn’t come to pass. With the bad guys lying low for now, all Dean and Castiel can do is get on with their hunting. 

Again, Castiel comes to understand Dean a little better as they save strangers’ lives every day in some weird recompense for the ones they couldn’t save. It helps, but not much.

Castiel’s guilt eats him up from the inside-out. Beside him, Dean aches in return, but there’s nothing either of them can do except move on with their lives.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The sun’s so bright Castiel wishes he’d brought his sunglasses out into the lot with him, but he’s too weary to get up and go inside to fetch them. He’s got his back against the motel room door, a cold bottle of water in his hand and a good view. Why move? Squinting never hurt anybody.

The view in question is Dean, who’s washing the car a few feet away with the concentration only a man hard at work on something he loves can muster. He’s shining with sweat, his jeans are soaked through with suds and he’s shirtless, something he can do these days thanks to the glamor hiding the brand on his arm from passers-by. Indeed, several women – and a couple of men – have been shooting him admiring looks as they’ve strolled past on the sidewalk, not that Dean’s noticed any of them. He only has eyes for his new toy.

It’s a black Dodge something-or-other built at the beginning of the ’70s, far too sleek and compact to rival the Impala Dean had abandoned so many years before, but seeing as they’ve yet to find any Chevy that even remotely resembles his old companion, it’s apparently just cool enough to make him happy. Or happier, at least. He doesn’t love it yet. Castiel wonders if he ever will: if that Dean still exists, a Dean who’ll waste emotions on a hunk of metal and rubber. But he _likes_ it, at least, and that has to be enough for now. It’s good to watch him enjoy himself, soaping dust off the hood with a faraway look in his eyes. Castiel had offered to help but Dean had refused. It was easy to understand. He didn’t want anybody else muscling in on his new muscle car. They were trying to bond, and Castiel only got in the way.

Castiel thinks it’s ugly, but he’s not going to tell Dean that. Then again, Castiel hadn’t thought much of the Impala either. Perhaps the aesthetics of cars were a little beyond him. After being able to fly from place to place for most of his life, he finds it difficult to invest any attachment to a vehicle that simply reminds him he no longer has his wings.

The August sun is far too hot for either of them to be out here for long, but there’s something hypnotic about the buzz of insects and the soft rumble of traffic on the freeway a mile off. They’ve been working flat-out recently, hunting spirits from one end of the country to the other, and this is a rare day off. The heat is already making Castiel sleepy and he takes a swig of water to wake himself up. Dean has beer, of course, though he’s hidden the bottles behind the car in an endearing attempt to pretend he’s not really drinking them. Castiel appreciates his effort, knowing he can’t expect Dean to go tee-total just for him, but it also makes him sad. Thanks to Castiel’s addictions Dean can’t ever really let go in his presence. Castiel hasn’t even seen him drunk since that night with Eloise; Dean’s treading on eggshells around him, and probably always will be. 

He blinks as his cell suddenly rings. For a moment he doesn’t recognize it as his because the plain _ring ring_ he’d chosen as a ringtone has been replaced by someone singing about ‘big butts’. He scowls at Dean as he folds over the car laughing, then takes the call.

“Hey man, it’s Chuck.”

“Hello, Chuck.”

“Are you in the middle of anything? I, uh, need to speak to you. Alone. Don’t let Dean know. At least, not yet. Something’s kinda come up, Cas.”

Castiel shoots Dean a final annoyed glance and gets to his feet. He strides over to the other side of the lot and turns his back on his companion. “He can’t hear us. What’s up?”

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause. “I had a dream last night,” Chuck says shakily. “What I mean is, I had a vision.”

Castiel catches his breath. “And? What did you see?”

There’s another silence. Castiel hears Chuck take a lungful of air. 

“I saw Dean die.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

“You okay, Cas? You’ve been really quiet today.”

Castiel blinks and turns away from the TV. “I’m fine.”

“You’re watching _The Golden Girls_ , dude.”

“Is that bad?”

Dean grunts and takes the remote from his hand. “I will never understand your total inability to tell what makes good TV and what makes bad TV. Here.” He presses a button and suddenly the station changes to display some sort of reality show featuring half-naked teenage girls. Castiel stares at the screen, not really seeing it, and doesn’t realize Dean’s frowning at him until at least a minute has passed.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Castiel fakes a shrug. “I’m just tired.”

“Worn out from a long day doing nothing, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Dean flicks off the TV. He lifts the covers and slides into the bed beside him, patting him gently on the stomach as he arranges himself on the mattress. “Did you dream last night? Sorry I didn’t wake up.”

“No,” Castiel replies, thinking, _I didn’t, but somebody else did._

Dean is oblivious. He hasn’t told him about Chuck’s vision. He can’t bring himself to do it. He’d told Dean that Chuck had called to say he’d arrived safely in LA and was going to be spending the next six weeks working on the script for the fourth Winchester movie – all of which was true. _Devil’s Trap_ is currently in cinemas, though neither of them had felt much inclination to go and see it, and shooting has already begun on _All Hell Breaks Loose_. Chuck is working on _No Rest For The Wicked_ , the first film to feature Castiel himself, and he’s a busy man – one of Hollywood’s most highly paid screenwriters.

But Chuck is also a prophet, and he’d seen Dean get his throat cut while Castiel had screamed. 

It’s all Castiel can think about, especially when Dean turns off the lights and the room falls into blackness. He tries to imagine how they’ll get there; who’ll do it; how he can save him. He can’t. Their future is an absolute mystery, but one thing is all but certain: Dean is going to die. Chuck’s visions come true. It’s a fact.

Castiel waits until Dean’s snoring beside him before slipping out of bed. He gets dressed and opens up Dean’s laptop, spending the next ten minutes Googling the city to find out the biggest crime spots. It’s quicker than simply driving around looking for people selling; at least this way he can head to the right places and buy what he needs as soon as possible.

He goes through Dean’s wallet and takes as much money as he can, swallowing down the guilt inside him because he just can’t deal with that right now. He can’t deal with anything right now. He’s had enough: this is it, the final straw. He throws Dean a lingering look as he stands by the door, unable to believe he’s about to do this, but he can’t help himself. He needs to. He needs to forget, if only for a little while. He wants the pain to stop.

He closes the door behind him silently and goes to find a cab.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The first dealer he meets thinks he’s a cop. Castiel laughs bitterly and informs him that if that’s true, then he’s the world’s shittiest undercover narc because he stands out like a sore thumb. The guy looks him up and down, taking in the long hair and the faded t-shirt and the ripped jeans, not to mention his white skin, and looks dubious.

Sighing, Castiel holds out his arm so that his companion can examine the faded trackmarks up his veins in the glare of the streetlights. 

“Whaddya need?” the guy asks a moment later, convinced.

Castiel doesn’t just need the smack; he needs the equipment to take it. He asks around and hands out money until a street kid leads him to a crackhouse in a burned-out block that probably looks better after the apocalypse than it had before it. The kid takes him inside and he blinks in the foggy, candle-lit interior while he’s introduced to some hazy-eyed twentysomethings who stink to high heaven and look as though they haven’t eaten in a year. 

Half an hour later, the needle’s in his arm and he’s away. Peace, glorious peace. He feels warm and safe. His heart beats pleasure around his body. He drifts. 

God, he’s missed this.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It’s nine in the morning when he wakes up and discovers, to his groggy amazement, that he still has his wallet, his shoes and two more hits of heroin left in his pocket. Either he’d stumbled into the most honest crackhouse in the world or everybody else had been too wasted to rob him. He looks around him at his companions – all sleeping – and debates whether to go back to the motel. Dean might be awake by now. He might be worried about him.

_This guy, I couldn’t see his face, just grabbed a blade and slid it along his throat. It was horrible, Cas – blood everywhere, just pumping out of him, and he didn’t make a sound. The guy held out a bowl and caught some of it and then Dean hit the floor. You were there too, but I couldn’t see you, and you were screaming and screaming. It was horrible, man. I woke up and I was crying – it was so real. You’ve gotta stop it. You can’t let that happen to him. You just can’t, okay?_

Castiel looks down at the needle on the floor beside him and picks it up again. _One more,_ he thinks. _Just so I forget for a little while longer._

Later, he shoots up some more as the afternoon sun sinks lower in the sky. The derelict house smells of cigarette smoke and vomit. Nobody goes near him. He wonders if they’re scared of him because he’s an angel, before remembering that they don’t know. 

He’s flying higher than an angel now anyway.

~ ~ ~

 

It’s dark and the candles are burning again when Castiel next opens his eyes, jolted out of his sleep by the sound of voices arguing. He’s lying on his side on floorboards that are covered in candlewax and burns; his eyes are gummy and his body’s stiff and tingly, like he’s been lying in one position for too long. He blinks in the gloom and tries to remember where he is and what he’s doing, but everything is too blurry, even his thoughts.

The voices get louder, then silence completely at the sound of a gun cocking. With muddled curiosity, Castiel lifts his head a little and looks at the doorway. There’s a crowd of around five men with their hands in the air, all looking utterly pissed-off, and they back away and into the room at the business end of a shotgun. Somehow it doesn’t come as any surprise at all to see who’s holding it.

“Cas!” Dean barks, his eyes darting from his hostages to his face. He looks _furious._

Castiel simply stares at him, frowning.

“Get up,” Dean snaps. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

He doesn’t move and Dean’s face twitches in annoyance. “Dammit, Cas, you stupid son of a…” He lowers the gun and raises his hands in a gesture of peace. “I just want him, okay? I don’t want anything else. I’m not here to rob you or cause any hassle, you got that? I’m just gonna take him and leave.”

The guys shoot each other looks and part before him. Dean takes a shaky breath, moves past them and kneels beside Castiel. A hand falls on his back and Dean shakes him, hard. “Come on, you spaced-out pain in the ass. Stand up. We’re going.”

Castiel stares up at the serious look on his face and can’t restrain a hoarse, hysterical giggle. Dean’s forehead creases in annoyance and, without warning, he yanks him upright by one arm. Castiel’s head lolls and he moans as the movement makes him dizzy, but Dean doesn’t seem to care. He tries to lift him to his feet but Castiel’s body is limp and unresponsive, making it difficult for both of them, and after a few moments Dean curses and hands him the shotgun with a strangled, “Hold this.”

Castiel stares down at the cool metal in his fingers and then gasps as Dean lifts him in the air, cradling him in his arms with a grunt of effort. Castiel’s head smacks into his shoulder and the gun slides into his lap; he must look ridiculous, but he’s too out of it to care. He closes his eyes as Dean carries him outside, murmurs of annoyance growing louder in his wake. 

The fresh air hitting his face makes him shiver even though it isn’t cold. “You weigh a fucking ton,” Dean growls in his ear, staggering a little as he gingerly picks his way down the steps, and Castiel mumbles a drowsy _sorry_ before sleep washes over him.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He wakes up gasping and spluttering under a spray of water so cold it almost gives him a heart attack. He tries to get to his feet and crawl out of the shower but hands hold him firmly in place. He fights against them, totally bewildered and not a little scared, but then arms wrap around his chest and a body presses into his from behind. 

“It’s okay, relax. I’m just trying to get you to wake up. Stop fighting me, Cas.”

Castiel swears at him and struggles some more, but Dean’s grip is firm. In the end he just has to bear it. They sit in the freezing water for five long minutes before Dean reaches forward and flips the faucet to deliver hot water. By the time he sees fit to let him go again, Castiel is not only awake but also fully aware of everything he’s just done.

“I’m sorry,” he moans, but Dean doesn’t say a word behind him.

~ ~ ~

 

He sits shivering in a towel on the edge of the bed as Dean moves around the room silently, digging out clean clothes for him to wear. The atmosphere is frosty, to say the least, and it doesn’t help that Castiel’s coming down hard from the smack and feels as though his insides have been taken out, filled with ice and shoved back in again. His head’s spinning and his stomach’s churning, but most of all he just feels disappointed. 

He’d done it again. He’d slipped. How many more times can he do this without it being one time too many?

A bundle of clothes land on the mattress beside him. “Here. Get dressed. We’re not staying here tonight.”

Castiel looks down at them and shakes his head. “How did you find me?” he croaks miserably.

“You left the computer on. I just looked at the history and saw how you’d Google-mapped your shopping spree.” Dean stops, closing his eyes as though he’s steadying himself. Then he opens them again and glares at him dangerously. “What the _hell_ , Cas? Why now?”

Castiel can’t help it; it just spills out of him without a second’s pause. “Chuck had a vision of you dying.”

Dean freezes, gulping in a breath of shock.

“That’s why he called me yester… was it yesterday? I can’t remember.” Castiel shivers and drops his head. “He says you’re going to get your throat cut while I watch.”

Dean’s silent for a few beats before saying firmly, “Well, he’s wrong. That’s not going to happen.”

“He’s a prophet.”

“Who’s been wrong before. It’s not going to happen, Cas. We’re not going to let it.”

Castiel looks up at him through wet hair and smiles sadly. “That’s my Dean. Always fighting the odds.” 

His companion sits on the bed beside him and sighs. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you vanish on me and do all… this?” He lifts Castiel’s arm and studies the three pinpricks above his vein. Embarrassed, Castiel pulls his arm away sharply.

“I wanted to forget for a while,” he hisses, looking away. “I’m such a selfish bastard, Dean. The vision was about _you_ and instead I made it about me. You should be the one flipping out, not me.”

“You can’t help it if you’re sensitive,” Dean replies, emphasizing the word _sensitive_ and smiling when Castiel turns back to meet his gaze. “You’re a fragile flower, aren’t you?”

“Screw you,” Castiel snaps, but he’s not really angry.

Dean leans in and slides an arm around his waist. “Cas, you have to stop keeping secrets from me. If you’d told me what Chuck had said you wouldn’t have done this. I’d have stopped you. Seriously, dude, you could’ve died out there.”

“I was okay,” Castiel murmurs defensively. “It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”

Dean snorts. “You were passed out in a crackhouse with a bunch of guys who looked as though they would’ve killed you just for your gold fillings. Come on, who are you kidding here? That was a fucking stupid thing to do and you know it.”

“I couldn’t stop myself,” Castiel says, hearing his voice crack. Suddenly there are tears in his eyes and he has to swallow desperately to try to control himself. _Dammit._

“Did you share any needles?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s one good thing at least.” Dean squeezes him softly. “Don’t shut me out, man. Don’t ever do that again.”

“What if Chuck’s right? What if you die?” 

“I won’t.”

“You can’t know that, Dean! What if you get killed right in front of me? I couldn’t go on without you! I’d die too!” His voice is a little hysterical and he hates it, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s tired and distraught with too many months of grief hanging over his head to be brave for a minute longer. And it’s true: if Dean dies, he’ll have _nothing_. Chuck didn’t just see one death, he saw two, because how could he go on living without Dean?

Dean doesn’t say anything, just holds him closer, and Castiel bends his head and starts to cry into his hands. It’s pathetic, he knows it is, but he can’t hold it back. Dean strokes warm fingers through his hair and sighs, waiting a few moments before getting up. He bends and lifts Castiel’s legs onto the bed, helping him lean back onto the pillows. “Get some rest,” he orders, and Castiel blinks away tears to look up at him. “We’ll stay here tonight after all. Catch up on your sleep and you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says for what feels like the millionth time, and Dean smiles gently and shakes his head.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, Cas. It’s like you said, you couldn’t help it.” He stares into his eyes for a moment and then looks away, pinching the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I always thought I was a mess, y’know? I knew that I had a million hang-ups and paranoias and couldn’t do a damn thing right. But you’ve got me beat.” He shakes his head and turns back to him. “Cas, it’s been years and I _still_ don’t get why you’re so obsessed with me. Whether it’s because you were an angel or because you just don’t have anything else… I don’t know, man. But when you say you couldn’t go on if I died – that’s some serious shit. Don’t say that, please. You’re not so wrapped up in me that you can’t live without me. Don’t you even _think_ that.”

“I don’t want to feel this way either,” Castiel assures him weakly, lifting a shaking hand and stroking Dean’s neck with hesitant fingers. Still whole. He’s not bleeding. Yet.

“Then stop,” Dean orders, realizing what he’s doing and taking his hand, moving it away from his neck. “I know you love me, you crazy son of a bitch, but you don’t have to fall to pieces every time things look bad. Be _strong_.”

Castiel stares up at him doubtfully. The seconds tick by and then Dean shrugs and lets go of his hand. “Get some sleep.”

It takes him a while to drop off, and when he does his dreams are filled with grief and despair. It’s not Amelia or Nicola this time. Suddenly they don’t seem that important any more. Not as important as Dean. Nothing is as important as _Dean._

~ ~ ~

Dean has to call Chuck the next morning to ask for more money, seeing as Castiel spent it all on drugs. Chuck is happy to oblige. He’s pretty much their only source of income these days, not that anybody minds their arrangement – Chuck’s money was all earned through the Winchesters anyway. 

While he’s talking to him, Dean asks to hear about the vision. Castiel lies in bed and watches him nodding before jamming a pillow over his head and pretending it isn’t happening. When Dean ends the call there’s a long, uncomfortable silence before he kneels on the mattress and crawls up to the top of the bed, lifting the pillow away and leaning in to kiss Castiel on the forehead.

“Never gonna happen,” he says, and bounces off the bed.

Castiel doesn’t say anything, and neither of them mention Chuck’s prophecy again.

~ ~ ~ 

 

Three weeks later, Castiel is standing by the printing press in a warehouse belonging to a small local newspaper when he turns round and sees Dean grinning at him. They’re hunting a woman who’d started cutting up her friends and family for no reason – pretty much Demon 101 – but she’d given them the slip in the vast, noisy building. From the look on Dean’s face, he’s just found her. 

“Ding dong, the bitch is dead,” he announces as he struts over to him, having to shout to make himself heard above the presses. Then his face falls. “The host didn’t make it.”

Castiel nods, too tired to care. “Did she say anything before she died?” he shouts.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. Just the usual cursing and spitting.” He looks across at the printing press and cocks his head. “Hey, that’s kinda cool. ‘Hold the front page!’ Do you think they still say that these days?”

Castiel glances at him and looks away, struck by an uncomfortable feeling he can’t put his finger on. He frowns before deciding he simply needs some sleep. This hunt is over. There’ll be another one tomorrow. That’s the way their life goes.

“She’s back there if you want to check her over,” Dean declares matter-of-factly, pointing. “She had a cell in her pocket. I guess the demon could have left a few interesting numbers on it that don’t belong to the woman it was riding.”

Castiel nods and follows him down the length of the building, wincing at the cacophony coming from the presses. They should probably find a way to turn them off, seeing as the demon had flicked them on in the first place – they weren’t exactly printing anything right now, just spinning and rolling with a hideous clanking and roaring. Actually, Castiel isn’t even sure this place is in business any more; what paper there is unrolling on the spools looks damp and a little moldy, and in some places it’s ripped and disintegrating. This newspaper may well open up again, but not any time soon. Some of the towns they’ve visited this week here in Alabama are still struggling to find homes for their citizens. This is one of America’s poorest corners. Lucifer’s footprints are everywhere.

He watches the back of Dean’s head as they walk and suddenly feels a tickle of something in his belly; a warning, perhaps. Something he can’t get his head around. He frowns in puzzlement… before his eyes fall on the Colt jammed into the back of Dean’s pants and he realizes something: _he never heard a gunshot._ The presses were loud, yes, but the sound of the Colt would have been louder. 

And if Dean hadn’t shot the demon, how had he killed her? 

He stops dead, reaching into his pocket for the demon knife. Dean comes to a halt a few feet away and turns around. “Cas?”

“You’re not him,” Castiel hisses dangerously.

Dean looks him up and down in surprise and sighs, pulling open his shirt. “I’m not a demon, dumbass. See? All present and correct.”

The ward is untouched. Still suspicious, Castiel stares at him. Dean’s face cycles from annoyance to amusement and back to annoyance again. “Jesus, man, get a grip! I’m not a demon!”

“How did you kill her without firing the Colt? I didn’t hear the gunshot.”

“Over this racket? Are you kidding me? Of course you wouldn’t!”

“I would have _heard_ it, Dean,” Castiel growls. “Show me the gun. Let’s see if you’ve even used a bullet.”

Dean blinks at him. His mouth opens and closes a few times. “Okay,” he says, his mouth sliding into a cocky grin. “You got me.”

He launches himself at him a second later, fingers scrabbling for his eyes; Castiel barely manages to twist out of his reach as they both hit the cement floor with a painful thump. He struggles as Dean laughs and punches him in the stomach, almost dropping the knife but closing his fingers around it at the last second. Dean grabs his wrist, slamming his fist down onto the floor hard enough to make Castiel grunt, but he still doesn’t drop the blade. 

But it’s a moot point anyway. _I can’t stab him!_ he thinks frantically, squirming. _I need to get the demon out of him without hurting him!_

“I thought you were supposed to be some sort of superior being?” gloats Dean from astride him, dropping his face close to Castiel’s eyes. “You can’t fight for shit, you know that?”

Castiel sends out a mental apology to Dean and lifts his knee, slamming it into his crotch as hard as he can. His companion _oofs_ out a rush of air and falls sideways into a sprawl on the floor. Castiel is on him in a heartbeat. He might not be able to stab him and finish it, but he can get the demon out of Dean’s body at least. With shaking fingers he plunges the knife into Dean’s arm, taking care not to hit an artery, hating himself for having to hurt him.

The man below him screeches in pain, but nothing happens.

“I’m not a demon, you moron,” spits the creature, sounding so like Dean it’s terrifying, and it shoves him away with unnatural strength. Castiel yelps and grabs at Dean’s arm as he moves… then yelps again as his skin sloughs off in his hand. He comes to rest with his back against the iron sides of the printing press and a two-foot long piece of flesh clutched in his fingers.

“You’re a shapeshifter,” Castiel gasps, finally putting it together as his head whirls in the roar from the machinery behind him. “What have you done with Dean?”

“He’s alive, don’t get your wings in a knot,” the shifter says smugly, climbing to his feet and picking up the knife. “He’s worth a lot to me. I guess you’re worth something too, aren’t you? I might as well double my money.”

“You’re giving him to the demons?” Castiel breathes, shocked.

The shifter shrugs, the cruelty on his face nothing like the way Dean could ever look. “Hell, it was only a matter of time before someone caught him. That stupid fake face of his didn’t stop me reading his mind when you got into town.” He grins and kicks Castiel’s ankle. “And holy shit, who’d have thought angels were so fucking randy? You’re a dark horse, Cas.”

“Don’t call me that,” Castiel snaps, climbing to his feet as his opponent watches. 

“My apologies,” the shifter says sarcastically. “You’re facing certain death and you’re worried about your _nickname._ ”

Castiel looks over his shoulder and sees a door on the far wall of the warehouse. Something tells him that Dean’s inside the room beyond it. “If you’ve hurt him I’ll rip you apart,” he growls, playing for time, trying to figure out what to do.

“What with? Your missing angel powers? I don’t think–”

Castiel charges at him, his head bowed so that he can butt him in the stomach with all the strength and momentum he can muster. The shifter folds in two and is thrown backwards so hard he slams into one of the machines with a yell of pain that easily drowns out the presses for a few seconds. Castiel straightens in time to see blood spray the enormous roll of blank newspaper on the spool behind the creature as it chokes and screams; it’s impaled back-first on one of the levers attached to the machine. A giant metal spoke juts out from its chest, dripping blood and gore, and there’s a hole in the shifter’s ribcage at least ten inches across. 

Castiel watches, panting, as the shifter wriggles and battles to free itself, but it can’t get enough purchase to push its body off the metal. There’s blood everywhere. Castiel looks down at the red-soaked floor and bends to pick up the knife.

“Don’t kill me,” the shifter begs, blood pouring from its mouth. “Please don’t kill me! I was only doing what they asked – please don’t kill me!”

“You killed seven innocent people,” Castiel tells it blankly.

“Please don’t kill me!” it begs again, weeping. “Please, no, please don’t kill me! I don’t want to die! Please, no!”

Castiel looks it up and down, confident it can’t escape, and goes to find Dean.

He’s tied unceremoniously to wooden beam in the room Castiel saw earlier, his face flushed red from struggling and his eyes hard with fury. Castiel pulls off the greasy rag the shifter used to gag him and starts sawing through his ropes without a word.

“Son of a _bitch!_ ” Dean curses, coughing and spitting on the floor. “Why do they always use the filthiest fucking gag they can find? That tasted like crap!”

“I overpowered him. Thanks for asking,” Castiel says idly, concentrating on the ropes.

“Please tell me he’s not dead so I can kick his ass,” Dean blusters, yanking a hand free as the rope finally gives.

“You can kick his ass,” Castiel affirms, fighting a wave of exhaustion as Dean jumps to his feet and runs out of the room. It takes him a few moments to gather himself to follow. By the time he’s reached them, Dean’s shoved the gag in the shifter’s mouth and is asking him how he likes the taste.

Looking around the warehouse, Castiel locates the switches responsible for turning the presses on and off. He hits the red button and the gears stop turning; the silence that falls is enough to make his head ache from shock.

“You like that, huh? Tastes great, doesn’t it?”

Castiel comes to stand behind Dean and leans on the press. “He was going to give you to some demons,” he announces, in case Dean hasn’t already figured it out.

Dean pulls the cloth out of the shifter’s mouth and glares at him dangerously. “Tell us what you know,” he demands.

The shifter is shaking and bleeding; if he’d been human, his wounds would have been mortal. As it is, he’s only injured. It takes a silver knife to the heart to finish him off, and he stares at the blade in Dean’s hand in horror and shakes his head.

“If you tell us we won’t kill you,” Castiel promises him.

“I’m supposed to believe that?” the shifter spits.

“I was an angel. When I give you my word, it can’t be broken,” Castiel declares. 

Dean gives him a funny look and the shifter notices. “Is that true? I c-can’t… I can’t read you any more. Is that true?”

Dean nods and turns back to him. “Sadly, yes. Looks like you’ll live to shed your skin another day.”

The shifter gulps down a breath and closes his eyes. “It’s a d-demon called Sebastian. He’s the one who wants you.”

“Sebastian?” Dean raises his eyebrows. “I hate him already. He sounds like some rich old lady’s Pekingese.”

“Why does he want him?” Castiel presses, stepping closer. 

“A ritual,” gasps the shifter, blood dribbling from his mouth. “B-big ritual. They need… the man who killed Lucifer.”

Dean frowns. “Why?”

The shifter shakes his head. His eyes flare a little and he seems distraught. Despite knowing it’s not Dean, Castiel is finding it hard to watch him suffer. He looks _exactly the same_ , after all, and Chuck’s vision suddenly comes back to him. Could this be it? Could Chuck have seen this creature with Dean’s face die instead of the real Dean?

But the shapeshifter’s throat is intact, and Chuck had heard Castiel screaming as Dean had died.

“Come on, sunshine,” Dean grunts, throwing his hands in the air. “You can’t string us along and then leave us without the punchline. What’s this ritual? Why do they need me?”

“I don’t know,” the shifter gurgles. “They want your blood. That’s it. That’s all I know. They need your blood or the ritual won’t work. They’re willing to do anything to get it. And that’s it, I swear I don’t know anything else. I swear it on my _life_. Please, let me go! Get me off this thing! Please!”

Dean shoots Castiel a puzzled glance, one which Castiel returns expressionlessly. He knows. He knows why they need Dean’s blood. A chill settles in his stomach, but he has business to attend to before he can dwell on it.

“You’ve been a big help,” he tells the shifter, and stabs him through the heart as hard as he can. The creature is dead in seconds and Castiel doesn’t have so much as a twinge of pity for him.

“So much for giving your word,” Dean mutters, sounding utterly unsurprised.

Castiel turns away, feeling cold. “Nobody should believe a damn thing an angel says.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

They clean off the blood and head out to the car. Dean waits for Castiel to shut the door and twists to stare at him without turning on the engine.

“So?” he asks.

Castiel just looks at him and Dean grins humorlessly. “Spill it, Cas. You know what they’re doing, don’t you? I saw your poker face when he said they needed my blood. What’s the deal?”

Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He should have seen this coming. He should have known the moment Sam’s body went missing that this was on the cards. He should have guessed, but no – he wasn’t clever enough. Not any more. He’s got the mind of a human now and making the connections is no longer a simple process for him.

“Some spells can only be performed by the most powerful of demons,” he begins. “I assume this Sebastian is one of them. He needs your blood for one reason: a resurrection spell. He took Sam’s remains because he wanted to bring him back to life.”

Dean goes chalk-white in an instant. “That’s impossible,” he chokes out. “You can’t bring people back from the dead. I mean, you can’t… not after so long…”

“I brought you back,” Castiel reminds him, knowing that Dean’s too shocked to be thinking straight. “And yes, it’s possible.”

“But… they can’t. They can’t do that. Why would they want to bring Sammy back?”

Castiel sighs. “Dean, it’s not Sam they’re bringing back. They need the blood of the man who killed Lucifer to feed to his corpse so that _Lucifer_ comes back. It’s dark magic, as dark as it can go, and there are no guarantees it’ll work. But it seems they’re willing to try.”

“Lucifer is _dead_ ,” Dean snaps, his eyes flashing. “He was an angel and he’s dead. You can’t resurrect angels, surely?”

Castiel stares at him pointedly for a moment and Dean’s face crumples as he remembers. “Oh, right. But you said God brought you back.”

“I still don’t know for sure that it was Him, Dean. And anyway, it set a precedent. If I can come back, who’s to say this demon can’t do the same for Lucifer?” He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. “But I’m not sure he’d come back as an angel this time. This is demon magic. Sam’s remains will only hold some of Lucifer’s power and he has demon blood inside him to add to the mix. This Sebastian might just be bringing a hugely powerful demon into the world, not Lucifer himself. He could be… different.”

“I don’t care if he’s fucking Krusty the Clown, Cas. We’ve got to stop this!”

“They would have to perform the spell on the same night you killed Lucifer.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “That’s three days from now. Fuck, so that’s why they eased off looking for me. They realized they didn’t need me until now.” His eyes widen again. “Which also means they must have a plan for drawing me in at the last minute. That’s why it all stopped, Cas – that’s why they stopped killing people. They found a way. They’ve got a plan already.”

Castiel nods, agreeing with him. “Someone must have talked. They know how to find you.”

“Great. That’s just _peachy._ ” Dean fists his hands against the steering wheel and grunts, “Eloise.”

Castiel thinks about it. “She doesn’t know where we are and we never tell her. She’d have tried harder to spend time with us if she was tracking us.”

Dean shakes his head. “This is crazy, man. How can they…” His words trail off and he turns to stare at him with wide eyes. “It’s _Sam_. It’s his body. How can they do this to him? Can’t they let him rest in peace?”

Castiel can’t say anything, so he doesn’t. Dean rests his head in his hands for a few moments before asking quietly, “If they can resurrect Lucifer, would they also be able to resurrect Sam?”

“Sam is gone, Dean.”

“Come on, Cas. _Theoretically._ If they bring his body back without Lucifer in it… would Sam be able to come back too?”

Castiel hates saying it, but he has to. “No. He moved on. Lucifer burnt him away and he’s gone now.”

Dean nods, his face stoic. Then he slams a hand on the wheel and growls, “Goddamn mother _fuckers!_ ”

A silence falls as they both stare out of the windshield at the empty lot before them. Castiel knows Dean’s going to say it even before he does.

“They need me alive, don’t they?”

“Yes. But don’t you even think it, Dean.”

“I can stop them. That must be why Chuck saw what he saw. I wasn’t being murdered, Cas – someone was killing me to stop Lucifer rising again. If I can–”

_“NO!”_

Castiel shouts the word so loudly it makes both of them jump. Then he takes Dean’s arm and squeezes him hard enough to make him yelp. “Don’t you dare even _consider_ doing that, Dean! Don’t you fucking dare! You’re not committing suicide just because a bunch of demons think they have a plan – it might not even work! There’s no precedent for this, okay? They could cast the spell and nothing could happen. And they can’t do a damn thing without you, so all you have to do is lie low until the anniversary passes, okay?”

Dean bites his lip and looks away. Castiel releases his arm and leans back, panting. For a moment it looks as though Dean’s going to say something, but then the tinny sound of someone singing in Spanish blares out from Castiel’s pocket. He pulls out his phone, annoyed, trying to ignore both Dean’s expression and the words ‘living la vida loca’ being repeated over and over again. 

“Hey, Chuck,” he says, checking the caller ID. “This isn’t a good time. Can I call you back?”

“Sure,” says Chuck obligingly. “I’m in Hollywood and it’s the city that never sleeps, after all. No, wait, that’s New York, isn’t it? A guy gets confused. Too much neon, I guess.”

The world spins upside-down and back up again. Castiel can’t speak. He opens his mouth and gasps, making Dean look at him sideways, but still no sound comes out.

“Cas? You okay?” Chuck asks.

“F-fine,” Castiel manages to croak. This isn’t Chuck. It sounds like him, yes, but it’s not him. He has no idea how, but he just _knows._

“Where are you guys, anyway?”

“Ohio. We’re in Ohio.”

Dean’s head snaps round at the lie.

“Anywhere in particular?”

Castiel tries to think of something to say but he can’t; he’s still in shock. After a lengthy pause Chuck finally breezes, “Guess I can’t fool you, can I, angel?”

“Don’t you dare hurt him,” Castiel growls, feeling Dean tense beside him. “You just get out of him right now, you hear me? Leave him alone, you miserable son of a bitch!”

“Abandon this fine body after only a few hours? Why would I do that? And after it took me so long to find him, too! Remember when I peeked inside your head that time, Castiel? Remember how you fought me? You didn’t fight hard enough. I saw his wife. It took one hell of a long time, but we tracked her down with the help of some of Dean’s precious friends. All that effort just to find a pathetic heap of shit God decided to gift with some visions. Hardly worth it if you ask me, but I know he means a lot to you.”

“Fuck you!” Castiel spits. “Get out of him!”

“Why should I? He doesn’t have a scary archangel watching over him any more. Why shouldn’t I have some fun inside his head? And he’s got a _very_ interesting head. You have no idea. Far more fun than your head ever was. Or what was left of it after I had a rummage, anyway.”

“What do you want?” Castiel demands, the words hard and sharp in his throat. 

“We want Winchester,” the demon says. “We need him to be in Los Angeles three nights from now – we’ll let you know where nearer the time. If you don’t come, your precious prophet, his wife and everybody he’s ever met will end the night choking on mouthfuls of their own ripped-off fingers. _I can read his mind, angel._ Nobody can hide from me. Nobody at all. They’ll all be dead before dawn and it’ll be Dean’s fault.”

“No,” Castiel gasps, and then the line goes dead. The demon’s gone. He lowers the phone and looks into Dean’s eyes. He’d heard every word.

“I guess we know how they’re going to get me there, then,” Dean says stiffly.

 

~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

_11\. Hollywood ~ Paradise Cove_

 

 

Castiel finds Dean standing by the pool, squinting through the sunlight at a range of hills a few miles away. Their edges are blackened but there’s new growth on display, green sprouting defiantly from twisted pylons and charred fences. Castiel walks up to him and follows his gaze, wondering what’s so fascinating about the view.

“The Hollywood sign used to be up there,” Dean explains, before he can speak. 

“Oh,” Castiel replies. He thinks for a second and then asks, “Why haven’t they put it back yet?”

Dean shrugs. “I saw something on Fox News the other day about how nobody can decide whether to build a replica of the old sign or use this as an opportunity to give it a new look. They could make it out of digital screens or something. Flash Coke ads up there and show trailers for movies.” He looks sideways at Castiel and smirks. “I guess you know the apocalypse is over when news channels find time to focus on the really important stories.”

Castiel thinks, _The apocalypse is over today. It might be back again tomorrow night._ Dean seems to read it in his eyes and sighs, looking back at the hills. 

“I always wanted to hang out at a movie star’s mansion. Now I’m actually in one I’m too tense to give a damn. And this doesn’t seem real… it’s like when we were at the beach house. Is this really the way Downey lives? How can he handle the guilt? Just look at the size of that pool! You could build three houses on that land.”

“Carlos told me earlier that he’s decided to train as a hunter,” Castiel reveals.

Dean blinks at him. “Downey? Seriously?”

“Apparently he’s very…” He frowns, trying to remember the term Carlos had used, before finishing, “ _Method._ ”

Dean snorts. “Either he’s got more balls than I thought or he’s a total idiot. He _plays_ John Winchester. He isn’t really him.”

“We need all the hunters we can get these days,” Castiel reminds him, looking away and staring at the shimmering swimming pool. “He might be on location this week but perhaps we can use him in the future.”

“What is the world coming to?” Dean huffs. “I can’t even tell where reality ends and fiction begins any more. I’ll tell you one thing, though – I’ll bet dollars to donuts Shia LaBeouf would crap his pants if he really came face-to-face with a demon. And Zac Efron? He’d faint away like a girl.”

“Three more hunters arrived an hour ago,” Castiel informs him briskly, remembering why he’d found Dean in the first place. “Carlos is vetting them right now.” 

_Vetting_ involves getting them to drink holy water and checking their tattoos haven’t been tampered with. They’re having to be thorough with every hunter who joins them; they can’t risk their plans leaking out.

“So how many is that, then?” Dean muses, frowning. “Twenty-nine or thirty?”

“Thirty. Thirty-two if you count us.”

“It’s not enough.” Dean sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “We’ve got no idea how many demons will be waiting for us tomorrow. And they might even have a plan to get me on my own. This ceremony they’re performing could be on a damn boat in the middle of the Pacific for all we know.”

“I already told you, Dean. It’ll happen outdoors, and they’ll need some kind of stone in large quantities to help conduct the magic. They can’t perform it on water.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you. But you could be wrong, you know. Even your giant angel Google-brain can’t know everything.”

Castiel looks away. “It did once. But you’re right, I’ve lost a lot over the years. I’m right about this, though. The rules of magic are as fixed as the rules of physics. A spell this powerful requires certain ingredients, even if we don’t know exactly how they’re going to perform it.”

Dean stares at him before raising his eyes to the darkening sky. The sun’s just starting to set. This time tomorrow, they’ll know where they’ll be going. They’ll know where Sam’s remains are, as well as the demons who took him. By this time tomorrow, they could only have a few hours of life left.

“All we can do is hope the weather forecast is right,” Dean mutters. 

Castiel almost tells him to have faith, but he bites his tongue. He’s prayed enough today for the both of them. 

“Hey guys,” comes a voice, and they turn to see Eloise standing by the pool. She looks tired from all the traveling and rushing around they’ve had to do in the last two days, but her smile is warm enough. “Carlos wants to know if you’ve got any plans for tonight. He wants to run drills.”

Dean grins his approval of the idea. “He’s a guy after my own heart.”

“He’s been hunting since before you were born. He knows his stuff.” Eloise brushes hair out of her eyes and quirks a grin in return. “There’s someone called Rufus here to see you, too. Says you know him.”

“Rufus is still alive?” Dean looks stunned. “Wow... I thought he died back in ’13. Should’ve known the ornery bastard would’ve made it though somehow.”

Eloise opens her mouth to say something, but hesitates. She clears her throat, apparently summoning up the courage to speak, before glancing from Dean to Castiel and licking her lips. “Say, are you guys doing anything later tonight? I don’t know if you want to get any sleep… the night before a big battle, y’know… it’s kind of _tense_ … I thought maybe you’d like to do something relaxing.”

Castiel huffs out a laugh; Eloise never changes. He’s not interested, though, and shakes his head before it even occurs to him that perhaps Dean might want to have a say in this as well. He glances at him, curious, but his companion is also shaking his head with a rueful grin. 

“Sorry, sweetheart. Last time was great ‘n’ all…” Dean stops, his eyes glazing over a little before emphasizing, “Holy _crap_ , it was great. Yowser.” He whistles, then pats Castiel on the arm. “But I don’t feel like sharing again. We’re kind of… exclusive now, I guess.” 

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “You _guess?_ ”

Dean shrugs. “Got a problem with that?”

“I _guess_ not,” Castiel affirms, amused. “Glad we cleared that up. Thanks for telling me. It’s nice that we can discuss these things together, isn’t it?”

Eloise ignores their little discussion and interjects cheerfully, “Can’t blame a girl for trying.” She stops and stares at them for a moment. “You two go so well together. You know that, right?”

“We know that, yes,” Castiel nods, shooting her a warm smile. 

Eloise sniffs, suddenly seeming nervous. “So, any advice for a first-timer like me? I’ve never faced off with the Devil before. If things go bad tomorrow, what do I need to know?”

Dean’s face falls in an instant. “Killing him is more important than saving your own life.”

Eloise pales before nodding. “Right. Bigger picture, huh?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Noted.” Looking awkward, Eloise darts her eyes between their faces and turns to go. Castiel watches her stalk through the gardens behind the mansion and turns to Dean. 

“This might be different from the last time,” he observes. “You might not have to sacrifice anybody.”

Dean’s turned to the hills to stare at the non-existent Hollywood sign again. “That’d be nice,” he says darkly, frowning. “But I’m not getting my hopes up.”

Castiel runs a hand down his arm. “Does this feel the same? Did you feel like this the last time you were waiting to kill him?”

“It feels different,” Dean answers, moving his gaze sideways so he can stare Castiel in the eyes. “Last time I wanted to die. This time I’ve got something to live for.”

Castiel leans in to kiss him. “You old romantic, you,” he murmurs softly.

“Did I say it was you? I was talking about the Hollywood sign. I can’t die without seeing the new improved version, can I?”

“Idiot,” says Castiel, but he’s too busy kissing him to let Dean reply.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The call comes in at six o’clock the next evening. Castiel can’t hear Chuck’s voice on the other end of the phone but he can tell by the steely look in Dean’s eyes that the demon is taunting him. 

His companion listens for almost a minute before he drops the cell and says stiffly, “Paradise Cove. They’re throwing Lucifer a fucking _beach party._ ”

 

~ ~ ~

 

They have a plan. It’s a risky one and it involves every one of the thirty hunters who have managed to make it to the West Coast in time for this event. There probably aren’t enough of them, to be honest, but there’s nothing anyone can do about that. Many more hunters have been stranded out East, unable to secure flights to take them to California. Planes are still few and far between, not to mention expensive. Castiel tries not to think about all that wasted manpower as their Dodge pulls off the Pacific Coast Highway and parks by the beach at Paradise Cove.

There’s a crowd beside the pier. Every single one of them is a demon.

There are at least a hundred, probably a lot more, and they’re all standing with their backs to the sea and staring up at the new arrivals with jet-black eyes. They’re a complete cross-section of humanity: old folk and small kids, soccer moms and businessmen. There are surfers in wetsuits and teenagers in shorts. None of their faces register any expression at all; they’re just _waiting._

“At times like this I really wish the Force was with us,” Dean mutters bleakly.

Castiel glances around them, surreptitiously staring up at the cliffs overhanging the cove and hoping their companions managed to get everything in place on such short notice. Many of the hunters have disappeared behind buildings and cars, using the night as cover. There aren’t any lights on along the shore – the entire area is quiet and lifeless, making Castiel certain that the demons arrived, took over everybody in sight and headed on down to the sand. The air stinks of sulfur and the moonlight makes the struts of the wooden pier look like insect legs straddling the water. 

He’d been right about the spell needing stone: between the sand and the cliffs, this is the perfect place for a resurrection ceremony – the bay is one big conductor just waiting to be fired up.

Just waiting to bring back the Devil.

He glances at the sky. He can’t see any stars, but the moon keeps popping out from behind the clouds. It makes him nervous.

“They must know we haven’t come alone,” Dean hisses, as they step off the tarmac and onto the sand. “They’re not that dumb.”

“They won’t know what we have in store for them. We’ll just have to hope they’re taken by surprise.”

Dean shakes his head uneasily. “I can’t believe all of this is resting on what’s going on in the _sky._ ”

“Want to go back to Robert Downey Junior’s place and make out instead?”

Dean snorts. “Damn straight I do.”

They keep on walking.

The demons part before them as they stroll across the beach, closing behind their backs and steering them towards a large bonfire built straight onto the sand. Chuck’s standing beside it, his eyes completely black and his body held straighter than Castiel’s ever seen it. He’s staring at them with a twisted smile on his face, arms folded defiantly across his chest. He looks like Chuck but he also looks nothing like him, as though the demon’s bravado is spilling out of him and poisoning the air around his body. Castiel feels those eyes rest on him and he can’t help but look away, having a sudden flashback to how it had felt to have this creature’s claws inside his head.

It’s not the sight of Chuck that makes Dean catch his breath and stop walking. Castiel senses him stiffen up and follows his gaze to the table behind Chuck’s back. Something is lying across the top covered in a red sheet with runes embroidered onto its surface, runes Castiel recognizes as ones symbolizing rebirth and strength. The object under the cloth is human-shaped. _Sam._

He flicks his eyes to Dean, sees him frown and is suddenly pathetically pleased that his brother’s corpse is covered up.

“Glad you could make it,” says Sebastian smugly as they come to stand by the bonfire. “Hope it wasn’t too short notice for you.”

“Traffic was a bitch, but we ran a few lights,” Dean says cockily. “So what’s the drill, huh? You bleed me dry and Voldemort comes back to life? I can’t say I’m that thrilled with the idea.”

Sebastian smiles and his eyes turn blue. “I see you’ve figured out what we’re doing here.” He nods at Castiel. “Having a fallen angel around must be handy. Shame he doesn’t have his superhero powers any more.”

“I can still kick you out of my body without breaking a sweat,” Castiel growls, and the demon laughs at his words. Beside them both, Dean flicks his eyes up to the sky and down again. Castiel can almost hear his companion’s heart beating faster as he gets ready to start this.

“I want you out of my friend,” Dean demands, his face hardening. “You’ve got one chance, that’s all. After that you’re mine.”

“Do you really think your pathetic hunter pals are any match for all these demons?” Sebastian asks, incredulous. “How many do you have with you? Twenty? Thirty? Are any of them as strong as us, or as fast as us? A few shotguns filled with salt and a flask of holy water ain’t gonna cut it here, Dean. You’re outgunned and you know it.”

Dean nods, his lip curling into the snarl Castiel’s come to recognize from years of watching him face off with bad guys of every kind. “Oh, I don’t know _squat_ ,” he spits, and that’s the signal.

He pulls the Colt out of the back of his jeans as Castiel yanks the knife out of his pocket and they both step forward. He has just enough time to see Chuck’s eyes narrow in amusement before they widen in fear: the demons around them have started shrieking. The crowd surges, almost knocking Dean into the bonfire, and the cries of alarm become more furious as the demons realize they’re trapped.

Castiel looks up at the sky, thrilled to see the silver outline of an enormous Devil’s Trap projected onto the underside of the clouds. Their friends on the cliffs have managed to set up the lightshow after all and the weather is working in their favor – for now. Castiel wishes for the millionth time that the cliffs had been high enough to shine the sigil onto solid sand but the angles were all wrong; and anyway, this had been their plan from the start. The weather forecast had said rain, and that had meant clouds. The demons are trapped by the very sky above them.

And it’s not over yet. Yesterday Dean had raided Warner Bros studios and collected a few more items to use in their arsenal. There’s a roar of outrage and pain from the crowd as the fake snow machines start up, three giant fans lined up along the edge of the car lot, spraying salt across the beach and straight into the faces of the demons – who can’t run because they’re trapped under the symbol on the clouds. Castiel watches the creatures scream and writhe as the salt hits them and wonders where the loudspeakers are, the ones that are supposed to be playing the exorcism tape right now. Perhaps the hunters in charge of them didn’t make it. _Dammit._

He turns back to Sebastian, holding the knife tight in his fist. The demon is staring at Dean, who’s stepped forward and is threatening him with the Colt.

“You won’t pull that trigger,” Sebastian bellows, his eyes black and terrifying in Chuck’s otherwise mild face. “If you shoot me, your friend dies!”

“I killed my own brother. Go figure, asshole.”

The demon hesitates. _Pull the trigger!_ Castiel thinks impatiently, feeling a terrific pang of grief for Chuck despite knowing there’s absolutely no other choice here, but as Dean’s finger tenses their luck runs out. Sebastian cants his head to one side and the gun is torn from Dean’s grip, landing at the edge of the waves and glinting in the moonlight. Castiel sees the brightness and looks up, fighting back a curse as he sees the clouds are moving, breaking up the pattern of the trap and freeing the demons below. _No!_

“Demons cause storms wherever they go, Winchester,” Sebastian growls. “You really think we can’t blow away a few clouds?”

With the trap broken, the demons charge at the hunters operating the snow machines. Castiel feels his heart tighten in pride at the way they stand their ground, but less than ten seconds later, none of them are standing at all. The salt being propelled from the fans turns red, then stops.

It’s down to them now. Desperate, Castiel lunges towards Sebastian with the knife but the demon catches his wrist and tugs it out of his grip without even taking his eyes off Dean. He shoves Castiel backwards until he lands in the sand and smiles maliciously.

“Nice try, boys. Now it’s _my_ turn to have some fun.”

Hands grab Castiel and pull him to his feet, holding him still as he struggles vainly to get free. There are two demons holding him; one guy looks like a beach bum and the other a twentysomething housewife. Castiel feels his cheeks start to burn in shame that he can’t escape their grip, but there’s nothing he can do against their strength. A few feet away, Dean is staring into Sebastian’s eyes with thunder and fury stamped all over his face. He raises a fist to punch him but the demon catches it nimbly, socking him in the jaw in return. Dean falls to the sand and his shoulderblades move feebly as he tries to collect his wits and stand up again.

“You humans are so _pathetic,_ ” grunts Sebastian, turning away. He marches down to the water’s edge and picks up the Colt, wiping sand from it idly as he walks back to the bonfire. Giving it a final glance, he places it dead-center on Sam’s veiled chest and turns back to his prisoners. His eyes gleam black in the flames and Castiel thinks that he’ll never get that image out of his mind, even if they do achieve a miracle here and save Chuck.

“Seems I’ve got everything I need,” the demon announces. “Lucifer’s vessel, the weapon that killed him and the man who fired it. Let’s get this party started.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel can’t help but be fascinated by the spell. He watches through narrowed eyes as Sebastian instructs the assembled demons to chant in unison, the words of the incantation uttered in a language so old Castiel almost doesn’t recognize it. Once he does, its subject matter is clear: _Rise, fallen one, rise!_ The demons repeat the words over and over again until the sand lying at their feet begins to vibrate and grains levitate in the air, some as high as knee level, swirling and dancing with soft rustles and swoops. From somewhere in the distance comes a cracking sound and the ground rumbles, noises which can only indicate one thing: the cliffs are coming apart.

_Stone, fire and water!_ chant the demons. _Rise, fallen one, rise!_

Sebastian has pulled back the cloth covering Sam’s body and is anointing him with something Castiel can only guess is an oil of some kind; something to ease the transition of dry, cold corpse to living, breathing creature. The light from the bonfire doesn’t illuminate much of the body, thankfully, but Castiel finds it hard to look anyway. He hears a sharp _crack_ and the demon turns round to grin at Dean, doing something with his hand somewhere around Sam’s head that turns Castiel’s stomach. _He just snapped off his jaw,_ he thinks, repulsed. _He has to feed the body Dean’s blood and he wants to make sure nothing gets in the way._

“Now there’s a real jaw-dropper,” Sebastian smirks, and Castiel can’t bring himself to look at Dean’s face. 

There’s no signal, nothing, but suddenly the chanting from the multitude of demons gathered around them grows louder. Sebastian picks up a long blade and stares at it as it glows orange in the firelight, moving it this way and that, before holding it up to his tongue and licking it from hilt to tip. He turns the blade around and licks the other side, too, his eyes closing in what appears to be pleasure.

“Dude, if you cut your tongue doing that you’re totally going to need a tetanus shot,” quips Dean. His voice sounds normal and Castiel gazes at him in shock. He’s kneeling with two demons holding him in place by his shoulders and he’s got a faint look of disgust on his face. He doesn’t look angry and he doesn’t look resigned; he just looks like _Dean._ Like he thinks all of this is one giant joke and his brother or Bobby will rush in and save him at the last minute, just like they used to do. Castiel doesn’t know if it’s a coping mechanism or if Dean is quietly confident there’s an ace up their sleeve, but either way it warms him to see him looking so strong.

And then his legs go limp as he suddenly realizes two things: neither of them are getting out of here alive, and when Chuck had had that vision of Dean dying, it had been his own hand holding the blade.

“I present to you, my Lord and Master, an offering of revenge,” Sebastian declares, holding the blade in the flames. “May this man’s blood quench your thirst and spark your own passion for vengeance. May you live and breathe again. May you walk and punish those who refused to fall before you, and reward those of us who did. May you come back to us, Father.”

“May your mother be a hamster and your father smell of elderberries,” Dean announces unexpectedly, with a small grin that implies he’s quoting something. It’s such a completely incongruous sentence that Castiel frowns at him, as does the demon. 

“Threw ya, huh?” Dean says smugly. “Trust me, sunshine – there’s a Monty Python quote for every occasion.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head dangerously. “You killed Lucifer, Dean Winchester. You stopped our Father from finishing the job he came here to do. Now it’s our turn to watch _you_ die.”

Dean’s face suddenly twists into an expression of fury. Oh yeah, the fun and games are over. “Bring it on, you crazy son of a bitch,” he snaps. “I’ve been killed more times than you can count. Whatever the fuck happens here, just know that I’ll be back and Hell will look like a Macy’s parade compared to what I’ll do to you.”

“Just shut up and _die_ ,” Sebastian grunts, and he pulls the blade out of the fire and swipes it across Dean’s throat in one smooth motion.

Castiel screams. The sound scares the crap out of him because for a few seconds he doesn’t even recognize it as his voice. He shrieks Dean’s name but it’s already too late: he watches as blood gushes from his neck and the demon holds out a bronze bowl to catch it in, smiling tightly as the liquid spurts and sprays everywhere. Dean can’t say a word and he doesn’t look at Castiel; his eyes are fixed on the sky, wide open in horror, and the last sound he makes is a disgusting gurgle that Castiel somehow manages to hear over his screams. The blood just keeps on coming, pouring out of him, pulsing and spilling everywhere, and by the time Sebastian takes the bowl and walks over to Sam’s corpse, it’s too late. The demons holding him upright release his arms and Dean hits the sand face-first, dead.

It’s like the world changes color from positive to negative. Castiel stares at Dean’s crumpled body and feels so numb he can’t even breathe. His body sways but the demons by his side hold him still, squeezing his arms painfully. He stares at Dean until his vision blurs and when he turns his head to look at what Sebastian is doing, all he can think is _that’s Dean’s blood he’s pouring down Sam’s throat. It’s Dean’s blood. He needs that. I have to get it back into him somehow. It belongs inside him, not out here._

There’s a tremendous rumbling and crashing from behind them as a huge section of cliff tumbles into the sea. All the demons turn and look, taken by surprise, but Castiel simply tugs his gaze back to Dean’s body again and takes a frantic, urgent breath. 

_Dean’s dead._

Then he starts screaming for Raphael, unable to believe he’d left a prophet exposed to a demon possession, unable to believe he wasn’t here, stopping this, saving Chuck’s life and Dean’s life and everybody’s lives. He shouts so loudly his voice all but rips in two and when one of the demons tries to cover his mouth he bites them so hard they yelp and jerk away. He screams his brother’s name over and over until something cracks him on the back of the head and he’s thrown face-down into the sand. When he lifts his head again, dazed, he sees not one but two Deans lying dead a few feet away; his eyes playing tricks on him with a cruel parody.

“No,” he moans, distraught beyond belief. “Father, please help me.”

“Come back to us, Father,” cries Sebastian, and the cry is taken up by all the demons.

“Father, _please,_ ” Castiel begs, staring at Dean’s horrifically white face.

“Come back to us, Father!” the crowd chants.

Castiel breaks into a sob. “Father… give me strength… _please…_ ”

It happens with no warning, so suddenly that there’s no time for him to prepare himself. There’s an incredible blinding light, a force that buffets him so hard he gasps out every ounce of air in his lungs, and then it fills him up from head to toe with a rush that is pure, unadulterated _power_. He’s on his hands and knees and he watches in shock as the sand heats up around him from the energy pouring into his body, the grains glowing red and melting into rivers. When he leans back on his heels there are two white-hot glass handprints left on the sand before him. He studies them numbly, his mind too shocked to process what’s happened to him, and then the light is gone and an overwhelming sense of strength and purpose suffuses his body.

Castiel is an angel again, and he’s _fucking angry._

He doesn’t give the demons a chance to react. With one glance at the sky he pushes the clouds into place and the Devil’s Trap is secure and firm in the air, holding hundreds of evil creatures in one spot. They roar in outrage as they realize their predicament and Castiel climbs to his feet with a small smile, determined to make it worse. He points a hand at the clouds and concentrates, calling on the power of his Lord and knowing that He will answer. 

It begins to rain, hard and powerful. The rain has been sanctified. The demons cower in agony as they’re doused in torrents of holy water.

Sebastian is suddenly standing in front of him, the blade he used to cut Dean’s throat lifted in fury. Castiel watches dispassionately as the tip pierces his chest, not even staggering from the force of the blow, and that’s when it occurs to him that he was never this strong as an angel; he feels different, invincible. He’s been given the strength of an archangel and it is _glorious._

He holds the demon by the wrist and tilts his head sideways, wondering what to do. He can’t burn the creature out of its host without hurting the prophet. The demon’s eyes are a deep, terrified black as it gasps, “No, you can’t do this… This is impossible!”

“You are mistaken,” Castiel tells him emotionlessly, and starts to pray.

He could never have done this before. Black smoke starts oozing from Chuck’s nose and mouth. It moves slowly, in fits and starts, as though the demon is fighting with everything it has to stay inside him. Castiel’s lips keep moving and he doesn’t move an inch, holding Chuck’s body still as Sebastian finally gives up and pours out of him in one long, oily rush. Castiel drops the human to the sand and watches the smoke swirl in the air above his head, still trapped by the sigil.

“You killed two women I deeply cared about,” Castiel informs the demon somberly. “You killed many others. You killed Dean Winchester. I will not suffer you to live after you have committed such acts.”

He twists a hand by his side and Sebastian is torn to shreds in mid-air, the roar of the smoke in its death throes drowning out the screams from the rest of the demons trying to shield themselves from the falling rain. Castiel stares at the remnants of the creature as they dissolve and then looks back down at the writhing crowd. He makes his decision in a split second and the Devil’s Trap in the sky surges toward the shoreline, the demons caught at its back edge being thrown into those in front as the invisible barrier shunts them forward. The sigil moves until it looms over the waves and the demons are forced to follow, wading into caustic salt water as they’re battered from above by acid rain.

It only takes a few seconds for the creatures to leave their hosts, forming a cloud of smoke so huge and black it’s terrifying. Castiel merely studies it thoughtfully, considering his options, before raising both hands and making a gesture with each. 

The demons are torn apart in a swirling vortex of Castiel’s fury; not a single one survives. The humans below the cloud stare up at the carnage, most of them too shocked to react, and once the air is clear again the clouds move apart and the rain stops.

Castiel takes a deep breath and lowers his head. 

Suddenly he’s tired. That took a lot out of him, and for the first time he realizes that perhaps these powers are only temporary. The thought sends a jolt of urgency surging through him and he turns to the hissing, crackling bonfire and Dean’s dead body. _I can bring him back,_ he thinks, and takes a step forward.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the body lying on the table twitch.

He freezes. He stares at the corpse, but it doesn’t move again. The spell hadn’t worked; it had been interrupted. The demon hadn’t given Lucifer all of Dean’s blood, had he? He wasn’t resurrected. It wasn’t going to happen.

He takes another step toward Dean and the corpse twitches again.

Castiel looks around; he can’t see the Colt. He’s not sure he’s got time to look for it. And then he realizes, with a rush of coldness that makes him gasp, that out of everything he’s ever done this is the biggest test he will ever have to face. He has limited power left and he can only use it on one thing, not two. He hasn’t got enough energy to bring Dean back to life and then kill Lucifer. He can’t send this miserable bastard back to Hell and save the man he loves at the same time. It’s one or the other. The world or Dean Winchester.

Castiel stares at Sam’s corpse, watching his fingers twitch.

He looks down at Dean, so pale and still by his feet.

_The world or Dean Winchester._

He makes his decision.

Dean’s head slides onto his lap and Castiel places a firm, wet hand on his slippery throat, closing his eyes and concentrating with every atom of his being. He feels the power inside him shift and shudder as he yanks it away from himself and into the dead body before him, groaning a little as it takes more effort than he was expecting. The last time he’d brought Dean back from death it had been difficult, but this is far harder. He’s used up too much of his angelic strength already. And he’s not sure he made the correct decision here: he could be being punished for choosing to save a human rather than kill Lucifer. His strength wanes so quickly he starts to think it must be true, but he urges his temporary grace into Dean regardless, determined to restore him to life even if it leaves him empty and defenseless.

“Live,” he croaks, frowning, and opens his eyes. The gash circling Dean’s throat is closing, its sides weaving together like a zipper being done up. It happens slowly and Castiel is sweating by the time it’s fully closed, knowing the damage to the delicate windpipe and arteries beneath the skin has been fixed now. All that’s left is a faint red line. He’s healed.

But he’s still dead. Castiel uses the dying remnants of his power to see into Dean’s brain and there’s nothing in there except random, useless bursts of energy as it finishes shutting down for good, apparently unaware that his mortal injury has been repaired. Even breathing into him or starting his heart again won’t help: he’s too far gone. Dean needs more, and Castiel doesn’t have it. 

He moans and places a shaking hand on Dean’s forehead, _willing_ his life force into him, but what’s left is too shallow to penetrate his companion’s skull. He’s empty, used up, wrung out. He’s not an angel any more; he’s just a human named Castiel who can’t save anybody. Tears prick at his eyes and he tries again, over and over, smoothing his hand down Dean’s bloody, rain-wet face and praying for him to open his eyes, to look at him, to _live_ , but nothing happens. 

He’s failed him. Dean’s not coming back.

He stares at him in horror, too upset to consider anything beyond this moment, and that’s when it hits him. There’s a tiny burst of light somewhere in his chest and he gasps, surprised, and the light spreads outwards until it reaches his fingertips. On instinct, Castiel places them on Dean’s cheek and the glow increases at precisely the same moment that a feeling of familiarity washes over him; a presence he recognizes, a presence he’s missed for years, along with a feeling of love and forgiveness that takes his breath away. All of it pours into Dean until there’s nothing left, but it’s enough. 

Dean’s eyes flicker open and he takes a deep, stunned breath.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, amazed. “You’re back. You’re back. I don’t believe it… you’re back...”

Dean blinks up at him, frowning a little, before his hands fly up to his throat and he coughs. Finding nothing there, he glances at the blood on his hands and looks into Castiel’s eyes.

“Told you I wouldn’t die,” he croaks. “The Force is strong with this one.”

“I healed you,” Castiel murmurs, still in awe of what just happened. “I became an angel again and I healed you. But it wasn’t just me… I don’t know how, but–”

Dean’s forehead creases into a frown. And then his mouth drops open as his eyes dart behind Castiel’s head and widen in absolute shock. Castiel sees what’s reflected in them and takes a deep breath before he turns around.

“I know you, don’t I?” says Sam.

He’s _alive_. Castiel had forgotten how tall he was, how imposing; how his hair fell into his eyes and how brown they were, how soft. He’d forgotten how many muscles Sam had; how he tilted his head when he was puzzled; how deep his voice was. He’s naked, his skin glistening palely in the moonlight, and the tattoo on his chest has burned black and charred against his flesh. 

He’s Sam Winchester, but he’s not. He’s Lucifer. He’s an angel. However, as Castiel gazes up at him, Sam’s eyes turn white. 

_Demon._

Whatever power conjured Lucifer’s essence back into this body corrupted it. Lucifer is no longer an angel. Castiel doesn’t know what he is, but he’s still more powerful than any other creature on Earth.

“You’re Castiel, aren’t you?” Lucifer says, his lips twisting into a grin; he doesn’t look at Dean once. “I remember you. You could have joined me but you fought me instead.”

“You shouldn’t be back,” Castiel says evenly, rising to his feet, keeping Dean behind him on the ground, hiding him with his body.

“I died, didn’t I? I can’t recall how, but I know I was angry.” Lucifer narrows his eyes. “I’m _still_ angry.”

Castiel has absolutely no chance to escape. Lucifer grabs a handful of his hair and yanks him into the air, holding him two feet off the ground as he yelps and struggles. He brings him forward so that their eyes are only inches apart and Castiel catches his breath as the orbs go from white to black and then brown again. 

“You’re the reason I died, aren’t you?” 

Castiel blinks as the realization sinks in: _Lucifer can’t remember what happened._ He has no idea who Dean is. If Castiel plays this right, he might leave Dean alone. “Yes,” he growls, wrapping his hands around the arms holding him and digging in with his fingers. 

“What do you think I should do about that?” Lucifer asks, a teasing edge to his voice. “How can I ever repay you for such a callous act, little angel?”

“You can go back to Hell,” Castiel suggests defiantly.

Lucifer nods thoughtfully. “I could, yes. But I think I’m going to do this instead.”

He slams Castiel into the ground and stamps on him. It doesn’t matter that he’s got bare feet or that Castiel throws up his hands to protect his head; the impact hits his pelvis and he screams in agony as he feels it shatter, the crack of bone drowned out by his yell of pain. Lucifer steps backwards and Castiel finds he can’t move – it hurts too much to curl into a ball, to roll on his side, to get up, to do anything. Everything from his waist down is on fire. He’s not even sure he can move his legs. Choking, he sobs and tries to sit up, but it’s a lost cause. 

Lucifer has turned to Dean, who’s sitting up on the sand and staring at his brother’s reanimated body in horror. _Don’t touch him!_ Castiel thinks wildly. _I need a distraction!_ He does the first thing he can think of, grabbing a handful of sand and throwing it into the air. It hits Lucifer directly in the eyes and he winces, blinking furiously, before grinning from ear to ear and turning back to him. 

“You don’t go down easy, do you, Castiel?”

“Fuck you!”

Lucifer picks him up by one arm and throws him through the air. It seems to take forever for him to hit the ground and when he does it’s not soft sand or cushioning water that takes the impact: Lucifer aimed him at the pier. Castiel lands on the wooden boards and feels bones break in both his right arm and his ribs, sickening _crunches_ that rent that air and make him shriek. His head smacks back on the wood as the pain lances through him and he blacks out for a few seconds, his pathetic human body unable to cope with the sensation. 

His first thought as he regains his senses is _please let me be an angel again._

Lucifer is standing above him. Castiel is so dazed that for a few seconds he thinks he’s just _Sam_ , wondering why he’s naked and why there’s such a look of hatred on his face, but then Lucifer takes a handful of his hair again and it all comes flooding back. He’s dragged up the pier with unrelenting determination, his back sliding over the wooden floor and every bump making him cry out as it jars his broken body. He prays the whole time, knowing he can’t save himself here, but the rush of angelic energy he begs for doesn’t come.

“You’re just a dirty human now, aren’t you?” Lucifer grunts as they come to a halt at the end of the pier. He kicks out at the wooden railings, smashing them to pieces, and lifts Castiel into the air by his neck, holding him out over the churning sea below and grinning at him. “You need a good wash. You need to be cleansed of your filth.”

Castiel chokes and claws at him with his one good hand, but suddenly three gunshots tear through the night air and Lucifer jerks and spins his head around. Castiel looks past his shoulder through watering eyes and sees Carlos, Eloise and a hunter he’d met the day before – Rufus, was it? – walking towards them with rifles in their hands and hatred on their faces.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Lucifer spits, sounding uncannily like Sam. 

“Eat lead and die, you son of a bitch,” Rufus yells at him, firing again. He knows damn well that bullets won’t kill the Devil, but he’s doing it anyway. This is a suicide mission. They’re buying time. Even in his current state, Castiel can see that.

It comes as no surprise when Lucifer lifts his free hand and all three hunters are thrown backwards so powerfully the pier shakes. Castiel blinks, gasping for air and trying to clear his vision enough to see if anybody survived. Only Eloise gets up again, and she’s cradling her arm over her chest with her face twisted in pain.

“Run away, you stupid little girl,” Lucifer calls over to her. “I have no time for your ridiculous games.”

Eloise tosses her hair defiantly and yells, “Go fuck yourself, Lucy!”

Lucifer’s head tilts to one side. Castiel feels him bracing to do something and he struggles madly, trying to warn Eloise that she’s about to be obliterated, but it seems she’s just distracting them both. He doesn’t see Rufus sit up and grab his shotgun, but he does see the flash as it fires and he feels the impact hit Lucifer square in the chest.

An instant later, they’re both falling into the water. That was the hunters’ plan all along: to knock this creature into the sea; to bathe it in salt and hopefully weaken it. 

Then all thought leaves him in a rush as he hits the waves. It’s a whole new level of pain. He can’t move his right arm, he can’t kick with his legs, he can’t do anything – he somehow gets to the surface of the water and gulps a breath but then he’s under the waves again, feeling his body being forced under the pier by the tide. He hits a wooden beam and it hurts so much he cries out, then swallows a mouthful of foul, salty water as he instinctively breathes in. That he gets his head above the waves and fills his lungs again is a miracle, but he barely has time to retch and choke before he’s sinking once more. The waves push him further under the structure and he ricochets off another beam, the impact almost knocking him out, but he manages to grab it with his good hand and uses a handful of seaweed to pull himself upwards.

He gets a whole ten seconds above the water this time before a wave buffets him and he’s dragged away, hitting another strut and swallowing what feels like gallons of ocean. 

He’s going to drown. This is it, this is what he was scared of before Dean taught him how to swim; this is that terrible, crushing death, suffocation and pain rolled into one. He can’t swim with just one arm and no other limbs; it’s impossible. He’s too far from the beach and he’s being tossed around like a piece of driftwood under the pier. It’s too late for him – he’s going to die.

_Please let Dean survive this,_ he thinks desperately as he goes under yet again, realizing that he’d made the wrong decision to bring him back. He’d put his own feelings before everybody else’s. He’d failed. Again.

The water is suddenly lit up with light and Castiel blinks in hope, expecting to feel that _power_ rushing into him once more, but he’s wrong about the source – it’s merely the beam from a searchlight, probably the light that was projecting the trap on the clouds. They’ve turned it on the pier so everybody can see what’s going on, but all it does is show Castiel just how far he is from safety and he closes his eyes in resignation as he starts to sink.

He expects to hear Tessa’s voice at any second as his lungs fill with water; what he gets instead is a hand grabbing his broken arm and yanking him upwards in one swift rush. 

The pain is so terrific that he passes out for a few moments, waking to find himself coughing and spluttering on his back with somebody’s arm wrapped around his chest as they swim slowly to the shore. He struggles instinctively, out of his mind with a primal fear, and the person holding him almost lets him go before shouting frantically, “Dammit, Cas, keep still! You’re going to drown the both of us!”

It’s Chuck. Castiel freezes and lets himself be held, his mind racing as he coughs up seawater and groans. Chuck’s okay, but where the hell is Dean? What’s happening with Lucifer? He tries to ask but he can’t make himself heard over the roar of the waves under the pier, and he gets the feeling Chuck’s concentrating so hard on swimming that he couldn’t answer anyway. By the time Chuck straightens as his feet hit solid ground he’s panting hard; swimming is clearly not his forte.

Trying to drag an injured man onto dry land without hurting him isn’t his forte, either, as Castiel discovers. He hits the sand just above the water’s edge and they both collapse, Chuck with exhaustion and Castiel in abject agony. His pelvis hurts _so much_ and he can’t move a muscle below his hips; is his back broken? His arm throbs and his snapped ribs make his already ragged breathing ten times more difficult. He moans and shivers as the coldness of the water sinks into his bones along with the shock. 

He doesn’t even look around him until he hears Chuck breathe out a stunned, “Aw, crap.”

He follows Chuck’s gaze. Lucifer is standing under the pier with them. He’s shuddering and twitching, clearly in pain as he drips salt water and has waves lapping around his ankles. He wants to walk out of the sea and up onto the beach, but he can’t. 

Dean’s standing in his way, and he has the Colt pointed right between his eyes.

“Move aside,” Lucifer growls, his voice echoing around the underside of the pier. Suddenly the boom of the waves doesn’t seem so loud any more.

“Fuck you,” Dean snaps back. His finger tightens on the trigger and Lucifer’s eyes fall on it.

“That’s the weapon that killed me, isn’t it? Was it you who did it? I assumed it was the angel.”

“You bet your ass it was me. That’s my brother you’re wearing, you arrogant fuck. I don’t appreciate it when angels swoop in and murder my family.”

Lucifer’s eyes widen a little before narrowing dangerously. “I’m remembering now, Dean… Winchester. You’ll forgive me for being a little disoriented; I’m not sure I came back with all my faculties intact.”

Dean snarls. “You seem to be a demon now. I’d say your faculties are pretty messed-up, yeah.”

“Sam was a good vessel and I’m happy to be able to use him again,” Lucifer continues, as though Dean hasn’t spoken. He holds up his arms and flexes his muscles, then opens and closes his hands. “He was strong and fierce. There’s nothing left of him now, of course, but he performed his role admirably.”

_Pull the trigger!_ Castiel urges Dean silently, trying to ignore the shivering that’s making his teeth chatter. 

“He’s dead because of you,” Dean growls, his entire body stiffening. There’s unmitigated grief in his voice and the hand holding the Colt is trembling. 

“Yes, he is,” Lucifer says calmly, his body twitching a little as a waves splashes up against his back. “Do you want to know his final thoughts, Dean? I felt them. I felt his agony as my presence burned him out of this shell. Do you want to know what he was thinking about as he suffered?”

“No,” Dean croaks, and his hand wavers in the air. 

“Do you want to know why he said ‘yes’, Dean? I expect that’s been eating you up inside. I’ve been gone a while, haven’t I? All these years and you’ve had no idea. Not a clue why your precious little Sammy let me inside him. I can put your mind at rest. I can tell you what you need to know. I can–”

There’s a flash and the loud retort of a gunshot. Castiel watches in amazement as Dean fires again, then again, and Lucifer simply stands and stares at him in shock as three small wounds leak blood and light down his face.

“I don’t need to know why he said yes,” Dean says firmly. “He thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he was saving lives because that’s all he ever wanted to do – all his goddamn life, he wanted to help people. You tricked him, you son of a bitch, and I never want to see you again.”

Lucifer’s body jerks. His mouth falls open and he moans. The underside of the pier lights up as an orange radiance bleeds from his pores and then he falls backwards and into the water, disappearing under the waves. Castiel can’t stop staring as Sam’s living, perfect body blackens and shrivels beneath the water, turning back to the corpse it had been before its possession, and when the sight gets too much he looks back up at Dean.

Dean’s staring across at him, pointedly refusing to so much as glance his dead brother. He looks down at the Colt in his hand and drops it on the sand as though he can’t bring himself to hold it any more, then walks slowly across to kneel at Castiel’s side. 

“Hey,” he says shakily, then frowns as he realizes that Castiel is hurt. “Oh fuck… are you okay?”

It’s like he’s been waiting for Dean to be alright. As soon as it hits him that this is all over –Lucifer’s gone, the demons are gone, they’re all safe again – it’s as though his body decides it can’t handle this any more. Castiel shudders and draws in a breath laced in agony, understanding now that he’s not going to make it. He has enough knowledge of human anatomy to know that nobody survives a blow to the pelvis like the one he’d received without there being serious repercussions; he’s bleeding internally, and has been for a while now. His systems are slowing down as a result and he’s also battling shock and his other broken bones, not to mention half-drowning. He’s surprised he’s made it this far.

Unlike the last time he’d been near death, however, this time he doesn’t want to go. He raises his hand to Dean’s cheek and watches as his friend suddenly comprehends how bad it is. His eyes widen and he snatches Castiel’s fingers away from his face, gripping him tightly before looking over at Chuck and hissing, “Call the paramedics!”

Chuck looks cold and wet and miserable. He shakes his head a little and says hesitantly, “Dean, I don’t know if they’ll come out here. They’re stretched too thin these days. There aren’t many ambulances left since the earthquakes and they’re all covering downtown… uh…”

Dean gives him a look so hateful it’s as though he’s glaring at Lucifer again. “Chuck, I want you to get on a damn phone and tell those bastards that Dean Winchester just saved the world _again_ and they’d better get their asses out here before he changes his mind and brings Lucifer back to rain down another apocalypse. You got that?”

Chuck swallows nervously and nods. He walks out from under the pier and Castiel watches as he joins Rufus and Eloise on the sand. 

“It’s too late,” Castiel says quietly, turning his gaze back to Dean. “I’m sorry.”

“You are not going to die, you hear me? I didn’t go through all that shit just to lose you now. That bastard already took away my brother. He’s not taking you too.”

Dean sounds so adamant that Castiel will be okay that it makes him smile. “You’re so stubborn,” he tells him, and coughs. 

“Take it easy, man. Just lie still. We’ll get you some help and you’ll be fine.”

“I have to tell you something, Dean. It’s important.”

“Let me guess. You think I’m awesome?”

The joke falls flat, but Dean’s wan smile makes it worth it. Castiel tries to smile back but he’s too busy trying to keep conscious. He needs to get this out of him while he can; it’s possibly the most important thing he’ll ever have to tell this man.

“I tried to heal you,” he whispers, and Dean has to bend to catch his words. “I was an… angel for a few minutes, but it… didn’t last. I tried so hard to… bring you back but I ran out of… energy. I failed, Dean.”

Dean leans back, shaking his head. “No you didn’t, you doofus. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“I had… help.” Dean looks puzzled for a moment before leaning in to hear his voice again. Castiel has to close his eyes as he speaks: suddenly he has a terrible, awful headache. “I got another burst of power, just when… I needed it,” he gasps. “It came from somewhere… else, somewhere beyond… It wasn’t angelic energy, Dean. It wasn’t my Father. It was Sam.”

Dean stops breathing, but he doesn’t move. 

Castiel has to fight to get the rest of his words out. “He wanted… to save you, Dean. He knew you were… in trouble and he came to me. It was his spirit, his… soul. He was full of so much love...” His words almost vanish into a sob. Dean squeezes his hand, giving him just enough strength to add, “He forgives… you, and he’s sorry. He did this because he loves you. He forgives you. There was… such forgiveness… He was so sorry… and he loves you so much…”

He loses it. Everything goes black for a little while, and when he wakes up Dean has a hand on each of his cheeks and is staring into his eyes with such fierce determination that Castiel shivers and it has nothing to do with the cold.

“You are not leaving me, you hear? You’re staying here and you’re not going anywhere. You got that, you son of a bitch? Don’t you dare leave me, Cas, or so help me I’ll just have to follow you.”

Castiel blinks at him in weary surprise. “That’s blackmail,” he wheezes.

Dean grins darkly. “Yeah, it is. But that’s just the way I roll.”

Castiel tries to answer him but nothing comes out. His body has gone numb and he can’t feel a damn thing any more. He’s so tired. He wants to go to sleep, but Dean’s eyes are holding him in place. He can’t go anywhere.

But he has to.

“I’m dying,” he manages to groan. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’ll be if you leave me,” Dean tells him firmly.

“Dean…”

With no warning, a glow suddenly appears on his chest and Castiel gasps in surprise, feeling a warmth suffuse his body. It’s not as strong as before, not like with Sam, but the presence is trying to help him nevertheless, tendrils of power snaking through his torso and struggling to heal him where it’s most needed. Something changes inside him; he can sense the moment when the blood gathering in his pelvis disappears, when the veins and arteries torn by his broken bones are repaired and set back in place. It’s not much – his bones are still in pieces and it still _hurts_ – but it’s enough to keep him alive, for now. Until medical help arrives. 

It’s a small gesture, a tiny one, given by someone with barely any strength to spare. Castiel has no idea who allowed it to happen or why, but he’s grateful with every fiber of his being.

“Thank you,” he whispers, as the light dims. “I’m so sorry about Amelia.”

It’s nowhere near as powerful as it was with Sam, but the _forgiveness_ that washes over him makes Castiel close his eyes and swallow back tears. 

“What the hell just happened?” Dean asks, incredulous. “What was that light? Are you healed?”

Castiel takes a few deep breaths, then regrets it. His ribs are nowhere near to normal. He’s still shattered, but he’s going to live. 

“My injuries aren’t mortal any more,” he pants, locking eyes with Dean. “I was… he forgave me...”

Dean looks as though he wants to ask a million questions, complete amazement battling with delight on his face. Instead he bends and kisses him hard on the lips, so relieved he almost forgets to leave Castiel any room to breathe. After a few moments he leans back and announces, “I told you you’d make it.”

“I guess you’re a prophet,” Castiel tells him, his words slurring with exhaustion. “Chuck had better watch out. And I still… hurt, you know. Be gentle with me.”

Dean grins, suddenly looking younger; suddenly looking like the Dean Castiel first met all those long, terrible years ago. “I’ll be gentle with you tonight,” he promises, his eyes gleaming, “but you’ve got no guarantees for any other night.”

He kisses him again, and somewhere off in the distance Castiel hears Chuck blurt out, “You guys are an _item_? Seriously? Holy crap, I must be the suckiest prophet in the history of prophets. I never saw _that_ coming.”

 

~ ~ ~


	12. Chapter 12

_12\. California ~ Heaven_

 

 

It turns out that having half-a-dozen broken bones and a shattered pelvis isn’t something your average human bounces back from quickly. Castiel is an average human now, so he gets to find that out for himself.

He learns a few days later that the only way Chuck managed to get a medical team to come out to Paradise Cove was to offer them a large sum of money; the emergency services aren’t what they used to be. He can’t remember them arriving on the beach and only has brief recollections of the journey in the back of the ambulance, mainly of Dean sitting beside him with his clothes soaked in his own blood and no neck-wound to show for it. After that there are doctors and vague impressions of white walls and the smell of antiseptic. That’s all Castiel knows until he wakes up again in what looks like the most expensive hospital room in the world, all pastel shades, beautifully serene paintings and exquisite-yet-functional furniture.

Dean and Chuck are standing by the bed with grins plastered on their faces. As Castiel repeatedly tries to get his eyes to focus on Dean’s face and fails, he realizes that it’s because he’s as high as a kite.

“Did I take an overdose?” he mumbles, furrowing his brow in confusion.

Dean shoots Chuck a wry grin before turning back to him. “Morphine, genius. Doctor’s orders. You need it after your all-star Celebrity Deathmatch.”

Castiel clears his throat and tries to lift his head. He sees a cast on his right arm, feels bandages around his chest and there are all sorts of tubes and wires attached to him in places he doesn’t want to think about. His head is groggy and his mind is floating. “Where am I?” he asks slowly.

“Someplace that’s costing me ten thousand smackeroos every time one of those machines beeps,” Chuck says ruefully. 

Castiel glances over at one of the machines by his bed and frowns, trying to imagine why a beep would cost so much money. He stares for so long that Dean laughs and nudges his arm, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside him. “He was joking, Cas.”

“Oh.” He tries to move. He can’t. “What’s wrong with my legs?”

“They’ll be fine, it’s okay. You just need rest. They had to open you up and put in all sorts of bolts and screws to keep your pelvis together. You smashed yourself up there pretty bad.” Dean takes his hand and squeezes it. “You’re like the Six Million Dollar Man now, Cas. They rebuilt you.”

Castiel just stares at him, bewildered by the reference. Dean shakes his head in defeat and continues, “You’ll probably walk with a limp for a year or so, but you’ll get over it. Now all you have to do is relax for a couple of months to let it heal.”

Castiel processes the news with alarming slowness. He feels stoned and a little dizzy; morphine never was his favorite drug. “I see,” he says eventually, letting his head fall back on the pillow. He licks his lips before asking, “What happened to Sam?”

“We cremated him.” Dean’s face twitches as he says it. “Something I should’ve done first time round.”

Chuck’s eyes fall to the floor and the room goes silent. Castiel lets the peacefulness wash over him before closing his eyes in exhaustion. 

“I think I want to sleep now,” he murmurs.

“Sleep all you want, Cas.” Dean’s fingers tighten around his. “Nobody’s chasing us any more. Relax, buddy. You’ve earned it.”

Not for the first time, Castiel follows his orders.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They keep him on morphine for a week, and it’s both a pleasant experience and an unpleasant one. Castiel feels as though he’s underwater some of the time, watching shapes twist and melt before his eyes as he tries to ignore it. It masks what has to be a bucketload of pain, however, so he doesn’t fight it too hard. And he’s too exhausted and beat-up to care about whether he’s going to get addicted or not, even though he knows he should be worrying.

As it turns out, once the doctors cut back on his drugs he doesn’t give a damn.

He’s changed. His ribs are hideously bruised but there’s no knife scar from the first night Lucifer died. He can’t see under the cast on his right arm, but all the needlemarks on his left one have disappeared. There were scars all over his body from the fights and accidents he’s had since turning human, and still more from Jimmy’s thirty-odd years previous to that. Every one of them is gone. When he became an angel again his body was cured of its imperfections. He’s added new ones to it already, of course, but the old ones are gone.

Castiel can’t even dare to hope, but it’s starting to look as though his addictions were burned out of him at the same time. He doesn’t seem to have that _hunger_ any more; that yearning for something to take his mind off things. It’s simply not there. He doesn’t crave a drink, he doesn’t think about shooting up; he doesn’t have that empty feeling inside him. Whatever happened to him out on the beach was enough to scrub him clean.

He prays his gratitude, but the words just don’t seem big enough to encompass his joy. 

It’s frustrating as hell being stuck in bed unable to move, but he doesn’t complain because he remembers how close he came to death... again. _Third strike and I’m out,_ he thinks ruefully, before wondering if the fact he’d already died in 2009 counted as a strike at all. But it’s the _reason_ he’s alive that amazes him the most. Jimmy Novak had crossed the veil and helped him, in the same way that Sam had done the same to bring Dean back to life. He shouldn’t have done that. The universe doesn’t work that way, not normally. Departed souls aren’t supposed to step back into the mortal realm and interact with living people, not unless they’re lingering spirits. Sam and Jimmy had _moved on_ ; they shouldn’t have been able to return, much less help anyone. 

Someone had bent and broken the rules, probably the same someone who’d given Castiel the powers of an archangel for those few minutes on the beach. Castiel is pretty sure he knows who it was, and he thanks Him in his prayers.

Not everybody had been so lucky. Of the thirty hunters who’d been with them for the final showdown, only twelve had survived. Several were killed when the cliffs at Paradise Cove fell into the sea; others had been ripped to shreds by demons lingering on the fringes of the beach who hadn’t been caught up in the Devil’s Trap. According to a grim-faced Dean, the family of hunters who’d brought the exorcism tapes had been eviscerated so thoroughly they’d clearly tangled with some hellhounds. “Poor bastards,” Dean had said, his eyes far away. He knew what that was like, of course.

Carlos was dead, his neck snapped in two after Lucifer had thrown him down the pier. Castiel remembers how the guy had looked after them in Mexico, working so hard to get them back to the US and laughing and joking with them while trying not to show his awe at being around an ex-angel. He thinks about how Carlos had once asked him to pray with him and he’d declined. Castiel prays for him now, but somehow it doesn’t feel enough; he wishes he’d been able to pray with him in person. They hadn’t had a chance before setting out on their mission. It makes Castiel sad, but at least Carlos had died quickly. 

Eloise made it through. She’s wearing a sling when she stops by for a visit and is full of her usual sass and bravado, but there’s a sadness in her eyes now that Castiel assumes comes from seeing so much death. She’s still good company, however, keeping him entertained with stories from her past when Dean disappears to buy food or have a shower. The hospital really is something else; there’s a guest wing for patients’ families, with a beautiful restaurant on the ground floor which Castiel finally gets to visit in a wheelchair after three weeks have passed. He gets that familiar feeling of guilt as he eats something off the à la carte menu while Dean scowls at his plate and demands the waiter bring him fries. The world is still fucked-up, as shattered and broken as the pieces of bone being held together inside Castiel’s torso, and it’s bizarre that there are people living lives of such luxury when there’s so much misery out there.

But his Father is back. Castiel has more proof than he’ll ever need and he also has faith that the bad times will come to an end. It’s been two years since the end of Lucifer’s reign; now it’s time for God to roll up his sleeves and get stuck in. He’s full of love for his Father, and wonders how it ever left him.

Whatever he gives the Lord is matched by what he gives Dean. 

It must have been terrible having to shoot Sam again. Dean nearly fell to pieces the first time, but he seems to have accepted this re-run as a necessary evil. Castiel watches him carefully as they bat conversations back and forth but Dean seems fine. A little tired, perhaps, but he jokes and smiles with all the energy of the old Dean. At first Castiel assumes he’s putting on a show, trying to keep him content and cheerful for his forced imprisonment in the hospital, but he comes to realize it’s not fake: Dean is genuinely happy. He even gets the rune on his arm removed so he’s not under the glamor any more, as proof that their lives are going to change from now on. Castiel can’t help but marvel at his attitude.

Then again, there don’t seem to be any demons left. There’s a distinct possibility that a few escaped Paradise Cove and Castiel’s wrath, but as the weeks pass nobody hears a damn thing that sounds even remotely demonic. There are still spirits and werewolves and vampires and a thousand other supernatural creatures who need their butts kicked, but demons are now a rarity.

“You committed genocide,” Dean tells him happily when Castiel brings it up. “You’re, like, the Pol Pot of the demon world.”

As far as comparisons go Castiel’s heard better, but he gets Dean’s point.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He has a surprising number of visitors, many of whom he doesn’t know, but they help pass the time. Chuck brings round a bunch of movie executives who stare at him and Dean as though they’re lab specimens, looking them up and down thoughtfully. Castiel doesn’t really know what to say so he keeps his mouth shut, while Dean asks them if he should talk to a lawyer about getting a percentage from the Winchester flicks. They seem quite anxious to leave after that and Dean waggles his eyebrows at Castiel as though that was his intention all along.

Chuck looks miserable and jumpy in the company of so many suits, but he cheers up when Sara arrives and takes him out for a beer.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Dean says once they’re gone. He flushes a little and looks distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Always,” Castiel says, intrigued.

Dean grins nervously. “I slept with Sara when we were at Camp Chitaqua.”

Castiel nods calmly. “I see.”

“Do you think Chuck knows?”

“I have no idea.” He watches Dean’s guilty expression and adds, “We were living day to day, Dean. I’m sure Chuck would understand.”

“You slept with her too, didn’t you?” 

Castiel shrugs. “I think I slept with everybody except you and Chuck back then.”

Dean shakes his head and turns away. “She seems really happy now. They make a great couple.”

“Chuck needs someone to look after him, I think. Sara’s very… motherly.” 

Dean sniffs, rubbing his chin. Then he announces brightly, “Speaking of mother figures, Missouri’s coming to see you tomorrow.”

Castiel grins before he even knows he’s doing it. “Really? She’s coming all this way?”

“All expenses paid, man. I thought you might like to see her.” Dean winks at him. “And I might have thrown in a meal with Downey to sweeten the deal. Turns out she’s quite the fan. Plus she knew Dad pretty well, so Downey wants to pick her brains for the next movie. Even though they decided to kill him off after all, they’re thinking of keeping him around as a ghost.”

“Is it me, or is our world getting smaller?” Castiel asks, trying to imagine the Hollywood star and Missouri quaffing oysters together.

Dean barks out a laugh. “Cas, I think it’s just that _we’re_ getting bigger. Did you know they’ve repackaged the _Supernatural_ books as _The Winchester Gospel_? I still can’t believe you angels knew that was going to happen but you couldn’t foresee the rest of it.”

“The future keeps changing,” Castiel explains smoothly, knowing that Dean won’t really be able to understand the ways of time and space and the universe. “It’s always in motion and hard to see.”

Dean stares at him silently for a few moments before raising his eyebrows. “Yeah. Thanks, Yoda. Want me to dig that X-Wing out of the swamp now?”

~ ~ ~

 

Missouri brings him pie. She fusses over his injuries and demands to speak to a doctor to check he’s going to be okay, asking so many questions that the physician starts to flush scarlet and stammer under her interrogation. Through it all Castiel bites back a grin and basks in her presence. He’s missed her.

After they’ve caught up she suddenly narrows her eyes, looks him up and down and sighs. “It’s not there any more, honey. But I suppose you already know that.”

Castiel shoots her a sad smile. “Yeah, I figured. It’s not like I could even feel it before, but now it’s definitely gone.”

Missouri nods, her eyes a little sad. “I told you it was still there and that it was waiting for something. Looks like I was right. It was such a tiny piece of… grace, is that what you call it? But it was enough. I’m glad you got to be an angel one more time, sugar.”

“It felt good,” Castiel admits. “All that power was just… well, magnificent. But it felt cold, too, and it wasn’t until it was almost gone that I started really _feeling_ again.” It amazes him that he can always open up and tell Missouri everything; he hasn’t even discussed this with Dean. “I wanted to hurt the demons,” he continues, hesitating a little. “I didn’t even think about Dean until the end. And then I think I made the wrong choice. I was supposed to kill Lucifer but I healed him instead.”

“You did it right,” Missouri tells him firmly, leaning forward in her chair. She’s wearing a smart red dress, the nicest thing Castiel’s ever seen her in, and for a moment the sunlight hits her dark eyes and they flash with something beautiful. “You’re done with all the guilt and the pain now, okay? Just you stop thinking about what you should or shouldn’t have done. Dean was supposed to kill Lucifer again, I just know it, and he couldn’t have done that without you. Those two are as twisted up together as Cain and Abel.”

“Or Sam and Dean,” Castiel sighs wearily.

“Yes, honey. Just like Sam and Dean.” She smiles and pats his arm. “You’re free now, you know that? It’s all over. You can be with Dean and help people and live a life. Once you’re healed you can do whatever you want. Don’t you go second-guessing that.”

Castiel smiles. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll whup your ass.”

He grins. Missouri’s eyes are twinkling merrily and she laughs as she gets to her feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, sonny, I’ve got a date with Larry Paul.”

“Who?”

Missouri waves a hand in the air and chuckles. “I suppose _Ally McBeal_ was a little before your time, huh? Let’s just say Mr Downey was a crush of mine for a while. I can’t believe I’m going to meet him after all these years. Sometimes I could hug that Dean Winchester so hard his teeth would crack.”

She practically skips out of the room. Castiel watches her go and it’s like the sun disappears, but when Dean returns an hour later it shines again.

“Man oh man,” Dean whistles, looking a little stunned. “I’m not sure Downey’s getting out of that restaurant in one piece. I thought she was going to _eat_ him.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

After six weeks Castiel has had his fill of the hospital and the doctors inform him he can leave, but only if he takes it easy. He can walk a little now, even though it hurts and he has to lean heavily on a cane, but just being upright again makes him almost hysterically happy. Whenever he hobbles anywhere Dean lingers at his side like a fussy aunt, apparently convinced he’s going to collapse at any second. Castiel doesn’t, but he appreciates the knowledge that Dean will catch him if he does. Dean’s very good at catching him, it seems.

Naturally, there’s only one place they can go while he recuperates: the beach house in San Diego. At first Castiel is dubious, not sure if he really wants to be around that much sea and sand ever again, but it seems rude to turn down the offer and Dean is pretty stoked about it, so they move in. To his relief, it’s just as beautiful as he remembers. The Californian Fall is a warm and pleasant one; the weather stays fine and the sea is as still as a millpond, day after day. The place is so peaceful Castiel soon forgets there’s anything else in the world. It’s like he and Dean are living in their own little bubble and the rest of the planet has gone away for a while. At some point they’ll have to jump back into it, but for now they’re taking a vacation.

Maybe Missouri was right, Castiel muses. Maybe he should just accept all this and be happy. Maybe this is his reward for thousands of years of loyal service to his Father. 

Maybe this is Heaven.

 

~ ~ ~

 

His Heaven isn’t quite perfect. There’s something he has to do first, although it turns out to be nowhere near as important as he’d been assuming it was.

“I let Sam out of Bobby’s panic room on the night he killed Lilith,” he confesses.

Dean stiffens a little. Then he blinks a couple of times, sniffs and shrugs. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

After keeping it a secret for so long, Castiel has to admit he’s a little shocked at the offhand way the revelation is dismissed. “You knew?” he asks plaintively.

Dean shoots him an _oh, please_ glance. “Give me some credit, Cas. Sam gets released from a room filled with wards no demon could ever break so he can go off and do the angels’ bidding? Of course it was you. And I get you were following orders. You don’t have to apologize. We all make mistakes.”

Castiel stares out at the ocean and lets out a breath. “I thought you’d be angry.”

“I was. In 2009. These days it’s all water under the bridge. A very big bridge, and a hell of a lot of water.” He shakes his head and grins. “Nice of you to finally come clean, though. I was wondering if you’d ever summon up the courage to tell me.”

“I assumed you’d be furious. I didn’t want you to–” Castiel stops, biting his lip, but Dean finishes the sentence for him anyway.

“Run out on you? Yeah, I get that. But it’d take a lot more than that for me to dump you these days, Cas, and you know it.” He aims a Cheeto at him and Castiel flinches in disgust as it hits his cheek. “Just don’t ever tell me you’re a closet Barbra Streisand fan or anything, okay? I’ve got my limits.”

Castiel can’t help but chuckle. He flicks the wayward Cheeto onto the beach and takes a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill his lungs. They’re both perched on the steps of the house watching the sun set over the sea, in exactly the same places they’d been sitting in on the night when Dean had kissed him and everything had changed. The only difference is that this time Castiel is leaning on one of the beams of the house with pillows scattered around him to support his aching body; sitting upright for long periods can be uncomfortable. He’s better than he’d been last week, though, and he knows he’ll be a little better tomorrow, too.

The other difference is that Dean is drinking a beer and Castiel couldn’t give a damn about it. It’s a fact that Dean seems pretty happy about himself. “Sure you don’t want one of these instead of that moo juice?” he offers blithely, waving the bottle at him.

Castiel looks down at the glass of milk in his hand and shakes his head. “I think I’ll stick to this, thanks.”

“Seriously, Cas, you look like a little kid drinking that.”

“It’s full of calcium.”

“So?”

Castiel frowns at him. “Did you somehow fail to notice that I broke half the bones in my body recently? They need all the help they can get to heal.”

“You’re taking supplements, aren’t you? You don’t have to drink milk like some old grandpa sitting in his rocking chair.”

Castiel throws a pointed look at the enormous bag of Cheetos in Dean’s hands and grunts his disapproval. “Like I’m going to take any dietary tips from you. Is there a single thing in that bag that is beneficial to your body in _any_ way?”

Dean lifts a hand and waggles orange fingers in the air. “Yes, actually. They make my hands look pretty.”

His grin is so wide it makes Castiel grin, too. Dean turns back to stare at the sea and crunches into another handful of snacks, looking every inch as content as Castiel feels. It’s still such an unfamiliar expression to see on his face that it makes Castiel’s heart ache a little. It occurs to him that he hasn’t spoken to Dean about the night on the beach, and that perhaps now would be a good time.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and when Dean gives him a quizzical glance he adds, “You died. That can’t have been… easy.”

Dean shrugs. “I can’t say having my throat cut is one of my favorite things in the world, no. But it beats being ripped to shreds by hellhounds. Or most of the stuff Alastair did to me on the rack. I got over it.” He smiles. “And I came back. I’m not complaining here, Cas.”

Castiel fights down the mental image of all the blood pouring out of his friend’s neck and smiles back. “Yeah, I’m not complaining either. And you seem happy. I can’t remember ever seeing you like this. Are you still having your nightmares?” 

Castiel doesn’t have a clue how well Dean is sleeping these days; they haven’t shared a bed since he was injured. His cast is off now, though, and his ribs are a lot less painful and the bruising has gone, so apart from the soreness in his pelvis he’s feeling considerably better. Hopefully they’ll be able to get back to their old routine very soon. Maybe even tonight.

Dean doesn’t answer him for a few beats. He sighs and puts the bag of Cheetos down before saying quietly, “Cas, you know I don’t really believe in the Man upstairs, right? I mean, you know I respect that you do, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings… but you know how I feel?”

Castiel nods, perplexed. “Yes, I get that.”

Dean closes his eyes. “When we were getting ready to face Lucifer again, when we were walking out onto that beach… the whole time, right up until that bastard slit my throat, I was thinking that everything was gonna be okay. I can’t explain it. I just had this… feeling. I _knew_ it. I’ve never felt it before, but I think it was…” He takes a deep breath and finishes shakily, “Faith.”

He sounds so freaked that it makes Castiel smile. “Well, look at you. You’ll be praying next.”

“I’m not sure I’m willing to go that far.” Dean shoots him a sheepish grin and looks down at his hands. “I don’t know where it came from and I don’t know why it happened, but I wasn’t scared, Cas. Not even when I was bleeding out. I knew I’d come back. It was seriously weird.”

“Faith _is_ weird,” Castiel informs him lightly. “Placing your trust in someone else is a strange feeling, especially if you’ve never seen them.”

“I put my trust in you,” Dean says firmly, his eyes flashing with meaning. “I knew you’d be the one who’d save me.”

Castiel frowns. “It wasn’t just me, Dean. God gave me my strength, and when it faltered Sam did the rest.”

“And I’m grateful to both of them,” Dean says quickly, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards and into a smile. “But you were in the middle of it. You saved my ass and I stopped Lucifer. We were a good team – it was like we were supposed to be.” He looks away, out across the sea, and when he speaks again his voice shakes a little. “I let Sam go, Cas. I knew it wasn’t him standing on that beach and I finally knew it hadn’t been him the night at the sanitarium. It was just his body, nothing else. He’d moved on. And then you told me that he’d forgiven me, that he was happy…”

He stops, taking a deep breath before finishing, “Anyway, to answer your question… no, I’m not having nightmares. I’ve been sleeping like a baby.”

“That’s good,” Castiel tells him, moved. “I’m really happy for you, Dean. You deserve this. You deserve peace.”

Dean snorts and takes a swig of beer. “Yeah. Let’s see how long it lasts.”

“It’ll last as long as we need it to,” Castiel says with true faith.

Dean turns to face him. The sun’s dropping below the horizon now and the air is drenched in red, making him look as though he’s glowing. “We really did it, Castiel,” he announces, sounding a little awed. “We beat the fucking Devil and we beat our own devils, too. Can you believe it?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Castiel grins, raising his glass. Dean lifts his bottle too but hesitates before doing anything with it. 

“I’m not toasting our victory with milk. That’s just wrong.”

“It’s going to have to do, I’m afraid. I’m not having another drink again as long as I live.”

“Aren’t you cured now?”

Castiel shrugs. “Yes. _Now._ But I’m not risking any of this happening again. I lost enough of myself to that stuff.”

Dean gazes down at the bottle in his hand before saying slowly, “Would it help if I stopped drinking as well?”

“I appreciate the gesture, but you’re not the alcoholic here, Dean.”

“I drink too much, though. I could be. I think if it wasn’t for hunting and needing a clear head…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, choosing to tip the contents of the bottle onto the sand by the base of the steps instead. “There. That’s it. I’m not touching another drop either. And that way you never have to even taste it on me again.”

Castiel is touched. “Thanks.”

Dean smiles with surprising shyness as he glances at him. Then he says flatly, “You’ve got Cheeto dust on your cheek.”

Castiel raises a hand to wipe it off, but he can’t remember exactly where the Cheeto hit him. Dean scoots over to his side and rubs it off himself before breaking out into an unexpected giggle. “Okay, so orange hands equal an orange face. Sorry.”

“Do you think you could give up junk food as well as alcohol?”

“Right. Dream on, sunshine.” He leans in and plants a kiss on Castiel’s lips, but it doesn’t really have the intended effect.

“Could you at least give up eating things that taste like Cheetos?” Castiel pleads, pulling a face.

“America is built on cheesy snackfoods,” Dean says imperiously. “If you don’t like them it means you’re anti-American.”

“I’m anti-anything that tastes like Cheetos,” Castiel grumbles, and moves his head when Dean tries to kiss him again. Unperturbed, Dean grins wickedly and starts pushing away the pillows behind Castiel’s back. “What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable.” Legs suddenly appear either side of Castiel’s body as Dean positions himself behind him, pulling him backwards to lean against his chest. It’s a damn sight more comfortable than the pillows and Castiel laughs as Dean wraps his arms around his front and squeezes gingerly.

“You okay? This doesn’t hurt?”

“It’s just what the doctor ordered,” Castiel declares happily, leaning his head against Dean’s neck. His breath is warm in his ear, even if it is a little cheesy.

They sit still for a few minutes, watching the sun lowering into the sea. There’s not much left of it now but the air is still warm. It’s been a glorious day. Again.

“I wonder if Matt Damon knows what he’s getting himself into,” Dean says quietly.

Castiel frowns. “That’s possibly the most random thing you’ve ever said.”

Dean laughs. “Sorry, I forgot I hadn’t told you. Chuck stopped by while you were asleep this morning with some news. Lindsay Lohan isn’t playing you in the next movie. They sacked her.”

“Her? I thought Lindsay was a man’s name?”

Dean’s silent for a moment. “Right. Yeah. I guess I never cleared that little fact up for you. Sorry.”

“I’m a _woman_ in the movies?”

“Not any more. Chuck went to the studio and told them about our big gay love and demanded they put it in the next movie. They told him no, but apparently he threw a fit.”

Castiel tries to imagine Chuck throwing a fit in a room full of Hollywood suits and can’t. “They wanted Lindsay Lohan to stay?” he asks, puzzled.

“Yes. But, uh, there was more to it than that. These are big, epic movies, Cas. _Devil’s Trap_ made more money than the first _Rings_ film and the DVD sales of _Route 666_ have broken every record under the sun. This is the biggest franchise cinema’s ever seen, and a lot of it has to do with the religious stuff – _The Winchester Gospel_ and all that crap. If they put in a gay relationship… Well, it won’t play well for some audiences.”

Castiel scowls. “But it’s true. It’s not anything to do with it ‘playing well’. It’s just how it is.”

“I know.” Dean’s kisses him softly under his jaw, the sensation making Castiel’s eyelids flutter involuntarily. “That’s why Chuck played hardball. He told them they could find another prophet unless they made the films true to life. Forget all the mistakes in the first two – this time he’s going for full disclosure. And apparently that means Shia LaBeouf and Matt Damon are going to have to pucker up.”

Castiel thinks about it for a few moments. He doesn’t know who Matt Damon is, although he knows the name, but there’s only one thing he can focus on right now anyway. “You really don’t mind people knowing about us?” he asks.

Dean’s hands slide down Castiel’s chest and come to rest in his lap. “It’s a brave new world, Cas. I’m putting the old one behind us, and that means I don’t give a damn who knows I love you. Facts is facts.” Just when Castiel’s thinking that’s possibly the most heartwarming thing Dean’s ever said to him, he ruins it by adding, “And I’m hoping they cast Lohan as Eloise, because then we get to watch ourselves have that smokin’ hot threesome on the big screen.”

Castiel moves an elbow backwards to nudge him in the side and Dean laughs. “Hey, come on. That was one of our finest hours!”

“It’s a finest hour that _definitely_ won’t play well for some audiences,” Castiel observes wryly.

Dean blows on his neck and Castiel jumps a little. “Cut it out!”

“You love it really.”

“Idiot.” He expects Dean to play their usual game and reply with _pain in the ass_ , but he gets a surprise.

“I love you,” Dean says instead, sounding achingly sincere. “You know that, right? I love you and I’m not going anywhere.”

Castiel doesn’t hesitate for an instant. “I’m not going anywhere either,” he assures his companion, twisting his head so they can kiss. He doesn’t even care that Dean’s breath tastes of junk food.

From there, it’s only natural that one of Dean’s hands should slip inside his sweatpants and start stroking him, although Castiel does have one objection to raise first. 

“Dean, you’re going to make my dick orange.”

Dean snorts in his ear. “It’ll look like one giant Cheeto. Wow. My dreams are coming true. I’d suck on that in a heartbeat.”

“That’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard,” Castiel says dryly. “I’m surprised I’m not hard at the mere thought.”

“You’re getting there, don’t worry,” Dean purrs, and Castiel has to admit that he’s right. They haven’t done this since the night before Paradise Cove; getting hard means _breathing_ hard and busted ribs don’t make that very pleasurable. Now, though…

“Oh yeah, there you are,” Dean says happily.

“Here I am,” Castiel agrees, closing his eyes and resting his head back on Dean’s shoulder. His partner’s hand is hot and a little too dry, true, but his expertise can’t be argued with. Dean’s fingers are adept at tracing over sensitive skin with just enough pressure to make nerve-endings sing. When they’re not doing that, his grip is tight, firm and full of control; long, smooth slides coupling with the occasional twist to make Castiel’s body shudder. He isn’t gentle with him because Castiel doesn’t like it when he’s gentle: he likes it when Dean is rough and his hands treat him as though they’re going to make him come _right the fuck now_ or there’ll be hell to pay. Dean knows him well enough to do it without being asked. 

Dean _knows him._

“That feels so good,” Castiel murmurs after a while, feeling sweat starting to break out on his forehead.

Dean’s response is a little unexpected but still welcome. “Here, lick this,” he orders, lifting his left hand in front of Castiel’s mouth. He dutifully licks the palm – no Cheeto dust, thankfully – and watches as Dean slides the moistened hand under his clothes. “Sorry for the switcheroo,” Dean mutters in his ear, “but I don’t want to give myself repetitive strain injury.”

The fresh hand is cooler, wetter and altogether just as delicious as the first. “Mmmmm,” Castiel responds, deciding that words are pretty superfluous right now.

“Yeah, I know, I’m amazing,” Dean tells him proudly, squeezing him extra hard to make his point and huffing out an amused breath when Castiel shudders in response. The newly-freed hand disappears under Castiel’s t-shirt, tracing the scars around his abdomen gently before moving up to his nipples. Dry skin rubs across them as Dean slides his palm up and down. It feels absolutely astonishing.

“I want to do this to you every night,” Dean whispers, running his teeth down Castiel’s earlobe.

“That’s… a very good idea…” Castiel manages to gasp. He’s as hard as he can get now and his hips are instinctively bucking upwards and into Dean’s hand without making any allowances for how sore they are. He can’t feel pain anyway; his breath has already started hitching in his throat as his body builds to its climax.

“I can’t wait till I can fuck you again,” Dean continues, licking under Castiel’s jaw and nibbling at his neck. “I’m going to make you scream like it’s your first time.”

“I’m… going to scream… now unless you hurry up,” Castiel declares breathlessly. 

Dean’s legs suddenly tighten around him, knees pressing at his sides and pinning his arms in place. Castiel is surrounded by his body, warm and panting and perfectly turned-on as the waves hit the shoreline across the sand and a soft breeze blows through the room. It’s pure bliss, and he hasn’t even reached the end yet.

“Do you like what I’m doing, Cas?”

“Yes, you know I… oh, _fuck_. Dean, just… oh…”

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.” His voice is teasing, but Castiel can’t waste any breath replying. He’s almost there, the broad, sweeping rhythm of Dean’s hand matching the quakes running through his body as he gasps and moans. Dean’s thumb smoothes over the tip of his crown and Castiel bites off a small, pained cry as it makes him shudder in shock; he’s so close now he can barely breathe.

“I got you, Cas,” Dean whispers calmly, kissing his cheek and squeezing him with his knees. “I’m never letting you go. Believe me, Cas, I’m never letting you go. We’re gonna stay like this forever, okay? I got you.”

Castiel arches and pulses his release with a groan that vibrates through the both of them, fingers clawing at Dean’s knees and his body trembling in shock as pleasure jolts through him. Dean doesn’t slow his strokes even when it’s over, knowing that Castiel likes to be handled until he’s soft again, and so he lies in the new evening’s darkness with Dean’s damp palm keeping him on edge until he’s shaking so hard Dean finally has to let him go and hold him tight, nuzzling at his neck comfortingly.

“You okay?” he asks.

Castiel nods, smiling absently as Dean’s tongue laps sweat from his neck. 

“Good,” Dean replies. “And I meant what I said. I’m never letting you go.”

“That’s fine by me,” Castiel says softly, closing his eyes.

He’s almost fallen asleep by the time Dean shifts behind him and says apologetically, “Uh, Cas? When I said I wasn’t letting you go, I kind of forgot I need to wash you off my hands before I eat any more Cheetos.”

“I can’t believe you’re choosing Cheetos over me,” Castiel mumbles grumpily as Dean extricates himself from his body, pushing pillows behind him to take his place. 

“Sorry, man,” Dean apologizes, disappearing into the bathroom. “A guy needs to eat to keep his strength up for all the sex, you know?”

Castiel watches him go, feeling sleepy and warm and completely and utterly content.

“Idiot,” he murmurs.

 

~ ~ ~


End file.
